You are nearly blind. Unobservant. I stand by you when you cross the street, I hold your hand, I
am on guard for you, and with you. I love you

While I thought we were both women,
Asks he: So, are you the woman or the man?

So then I ask her who asks myself, Why are you called “soldier” by the passerby?
Why are you the stone and I the guide?
What makes two? What makes 1 + 1 equal 2? I wonder
Are you missing feet, for I have two? Does what you need have I to provide?

She shakes her head.
Do you know what you give me, you give me purpose / You give me a reason

… But which one am I and Why, I ask

She lets go of my hand and crosses the street without me.

The car passing by doesn’t hit her. And nothing else does.

Kaylyn Venuto is from a small suburb in Massachusetts who moved to Brooklyn, New York at 18 years old to attend art school. She transferred to the University of Georgia to pursue a liberal arts-centered degree which simultaneously ignited her passion in social justice education. She strives to be a courageous, consistent observer and feels a responsibility to be the best leader she can be.
Categories: Prose