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.