Letting Go

August 1, 2012
I can’t do it!
I won't.
Didn't I say I was a mule?
Then you're not a very good listener.

It’s too raw -
too fresh.

This hunk of flesh clawed from my insides
ligaments torn, muscle tendons flailing,
red veins still vomiting red.

It’s not yet properly spoiled.
Flies black covering its bloody juices.

I can not
(yet) take the steps to solidify my flesh.
Turning it into an usable meat -
My fuel for another day.

What would I become?
A cannibal.
Or stone-skinned apathy.

Look –
the fruit of my passion.
Eat it.

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