Seven
Seven I hate the word “futility,” though words are my weapon and my shield. Somehow someone slipped through my ear canal and started talking smack way back when. Seven. Sin, humility, scourge, confession, grievous, words I learned at seven through my most grievous fault. Ten times over I have killed them all but they spring back to life, grotesque, insinuating, just when I’m about to get somewhere. Maybe I will lay down my arms. Maybe it’s the hated word, the fight, that resurrects them. Give up, try not to give away that futility is just another feint. What might happen if I really fought no more? S. Robbins from Readings
Sherry Robbins 