What brings color to my cheeks,
hot flashes of shame, is not thoughts of losing myself
in pleasure, forgetting myself for a few seconds, as the image of the Holy Trinity
watches over me.
It is not remembering the time I stood naked
before the stranger at that truck-stop motel,
waiting for her to take my innocence.
It is not the time I turned away in horror when Grandfather, simply seeking relief
from thoughts of death and coffins, only wanting the warmth of another body beside him, came to my bed
What makes me want to run from myself and be
or the stranger next to me on the 7:12 into New York City,
is that I cannot accept who I am.