Most find it easy to idealize the roots of a great tree; they are necessary deep, and unyielding. 

But after that first divine sprouting what that tree needs--beyond the perfect balance of cosmos that allow things like you and I to also exist--is to grow up, out. No matter how deep and wide the roots can grow, it must also continue outward and up if it is to become as great as it can be.

I consider this when I find myself reaching to ground and connect to my truest self only to find it overly difficult to go deeper, or become more. It leads me to find where I am clutching to things I possibly never had, holding myself back from reaching out for those that may seem impossible to grasp because of fear, perceived loss, and unwarranted anxiety.

--Without reaching there cannot be growth.

I then begin the [unknown and always different] process of letting those things go, as unnecessary burdens make it terribly difficult to within greatness grow.

My brown skin means most social environments are automatically more dangerous.

My sex characteristics mean I am less likely to be heard, respected, and valued.

My gender orientation is largely unknown and misunderstood.

My sexual orientation is still considered "confused" by many on all sides.

My biology is programmed for respiratory and dental disease.

--All of which is infinitely better than being bombed from above, watching family and friends crushed by rubble to soothe the egos of just a few overreaching assholes.

“Fuck 'em,” I whisper, tilting the last drops of salvation onto my tongue. It burns for just a moment, the spicy warmth fading quickly under the metallic tang of my own blood. I lick my inner cheek tenderly, tongue tracing the ragged lines of ruin carved by own teeth cutting into my flesh on impact. “Fuck 'em and fuck ’em.”

I signal Caz for a re-up, sliding my glass gently in his direction. He nods once, knowingly, obliging with efficient grace. Good ol’ Caz. Doesn’t ask questions, maybe doesn’t care. The perfect company.

I laugh bitterly under my breath, clench my aching jaw, shift again in a futile attempt to reduce the vibrant, pulsating pain cast from my shattered rib. My breaths are shallow, shuddering, heartbeat still too frantic. I slowly rotate my neck, fingers unremittingly tapping the counter, eyes desperately sweeping the dance floor for a source of interest, any distraction.

If I can’t run—can barely move—I’ll drink until I can, or forget that I want to. Whichever comes first. I’ll obscure my senses to override the savage scenario looping just below my consciousness, use libations' slight-of-mind to mute its shrill echoes. To pretend, as if I don’t already know that the worst possible use of my abilities is not using them at all.

I've experienced epic love. Crazy, endless, passionate love. Love like supernovas dancing. Like breaths held for fear of shattering.

Perfect in its violent clarity, every close-held moment defining me.

It ended.

It happened again.

It ended.

It's happening again and

It'll happen again, and

Only patience ever invites it.

I ache to know your voice when pulled from you with pleasure; to hold your convulsing body tight to me as you ride my effort.

I need your breath coming quickly, hands grasping, eyes wide and surprised then to flutter shut with sensation...

I need access to your body to obtain your carnal screams--breath and sweat. Tears. Desperate release.

She remembers me in her most vulnerable moments, too something-or-other to call but unable to say nothing. In short bursts of text, we exchange thoughts, our feelings, the realities of our individual existences. I question whether it means as much to her as me but am too cowardly to ask. Too sensitive to know. And I battle with myself before I tell her anything I tell her because I miss her with everything I am.

How many times have I waited for the earliest morning bus, set upon a sheltered bench to get out of the rain?

Not enough, it seems.

The temperature is mild--not cold if I keep moving, not warm if I cease--and the rain falls light enough two layers don't keep my skin dry, but comfortably damp. Cars pass every-so-often, street people shuffling past, mumbling and growling.

This has always been bearable--if sometimes only just--because the bus that's eventually coming will bring me closer to home.

I was reborn again today...It was a simple affair, happened beneath the hot water rivulets during my daily shower; still the closest analog to human touch I've found..

I felt so alive! Could recognize my blood circulating through me, heart beating. My breath was slow and deep, somehow prompting me to visualize my life in her womb, warm, sheltered, wet.

Muscles thrumming, I reveled in my humanity. Breathing, remembering my divinity--flexing and extending, planning how to become my ultimate self.

Undulating and stretching, I felt fluid and sexy, powerful and quick and strong--

Within this overpowering realization, intricately feeling my whole self, I felt very specific purposes cascade through me--Stay alive. Be well. Be useful. Do good. Be real. Be present. Gain wisdom. Have grace.

Stay alive.

BE alive.

I turned the water off.