Feeling acted upon and frail,
Minute examinations of each moment,
Never failing to find evidence (and excuses),
Race, class, age, height, voice – whatever’s at hand –
To explain why they all hate me

–

Is this the triumphant verse?
The one where I’m post-, post-, post-..?
The one where I’m happy and free?
The one with history carried lightly,
Only existing as edited earlier references,
In tales of victory?

–

The truth might be,
That my goals are now circumscribed,
That my vision grows myopic,
That narrowing of hope
Means narrowing of despair;
Happiness.

-Anon