The Bleak Reality

The Bleak Reality

The Bleak Reality

 

I come up from the ground, ash secreting into my palms.

What have you done? My armies lie dead. Dead from poisons you plastered over them. Their bodies ooze onto my hip because you stepped where you so carelessly pleased, one leg exposed for all to see. That was not meant to be. Every crevasse, every line, every stretch on me. You can see my everything. My body’s drained. You’ve taken everything out of me. I can barely even move, yet I’m constantly tumbling, yet you’ve left me with nothing to fall back on. I can hear each drip that falls from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. They’re overpowering me. Every word I speak or song I sing is followed by my choking. Why? I gave you all. I gave you life, other than your own. I gave you berries, bees, and even a way to breathe. I gave you me, everything from my head to my knees. You had room to grow but not any longer.

I can still feel the asphalt as it sinks into my skin. It burns like hell, but there’s nothing I can do. I tried to wish you to feel what I feel, but that’s such a cruel thing to wish, even just a little of it. It’s like pouring tar over your body, but instead of being decorated with feathers, you’re decorated with 50 bricks and then coated with more tar, all while being awake and alert. However, while it bums your whole body, your cheek is the only part receiving external damage. On the other cheek you’re being shaved, peeled, and erased—cyclically. You’re shaved of all your warm, comforting hairs, then, what shields you from all outside horrors is peeled; finally, every last bit of you is scraped and erased. That’s done to you every time your hairs grow back, every time you feel normal, but over time you don’t know what your normal is; then what used to be your normal is a fantasy. Your new reality is filled with wrinkles and scars. Then, you reach the head of hair, your most prized possession. Days go by, and your hair grows thinner; weeks go by, and your splits grow longer. As you sit and brush, one hair falls to the ground. The next day you brush, and two hairs fall. By the next month, you’re brushing, and suddenly one and two turn to one and two hundred. Within the next couple of months, your hairs are unrecognizable. Your life is disappearing by the second. Within a year your hair’s gone, and your skin is just that . . . skin. No more life, just skin.

Now I can’t breathe, and my berries lie in a can next to me. My fruits came packaged, ready to eat, but have been returned naked, wrapped in the very thing that’s killing me. You pierced into me with needles upon needles, slowly depleting me of something I need, something that took me centuries to conceive but took you only a few decades to drain.

I tried to warn you, but you denied. I showed you my aches and pains, but you said not a word. Now my pain is coming to an end, and while it will take me millennia to regain my strength, know that I won’t make the same mistake again.