There is an imprint of a frog on my back
From a poem by Mary Oliver.
It is sticky sweat oozing down my spine,
Leaking into the small of my back
Screaming, "You do not have to be good."
My own skin whispers back,
"But don't I?" and sears the grime.
I don't know what to do with my own badness.
Punishment for my "sins" seems necessary,
But so does radical acceptance.
All I can do is close my eyes,
Hoping for a better tomorrow where
My brain requires less dopamine
And more compassion.
Slowly I will rise from the grave I dig once a night.
I will claw my way out by my fingers
And into the light.
Shame that no one will be near
To see the resurrection.