by S. Anon
There’s a drum in my ear. I’m not talking science; I was never that smart. I’m not dumb either, are we saying that anymore? The empty clay doesn’t respond, no matter how much you resort to name calling. I could always judge a look someone gave me, and I was right mostly, when I didn’t have to stand in wooden boxes and contort my face to match a dead bunny. It’s literature, so say rabbit. A look can tell you how much someone cares about the gum you’re chewing. It can form a barrier if their intentions are decent.
I went to a church once to see the glass ceiling. I wasn’t expecting to be saved so I wasn’t disappointed. There were fleshy hands that grazed my right wrist a little bit. It was only a problem because it wasn’t the left. It all would’ve been fine if I was offered a piece of cheese, I’ve smelled the train tracks enough times to know that’s true. The ones you find in mercy and body flashes of obscene spit. Take a turn at the corner and you’re at Dundas Station, it’s home to piss and routine police chase, down the fire extinguisher.
So, let’s say I was a dead rabbit. Would that make empathy easier? I was told as a young girl that my identity was selected but then the higher ups lost control, and I was left dangling off of some elevator that thinks 45 is reasonable age to do splits and feed candy to undeserving mouths.
Before you bring up ancestors, I want you to consider if I give a shit. No land has claimed me but I’ve been trying to hoist my two fingernails on red sand. “It’s the children! It’s the children!”. It’s never the children, because we all die anyway, without consent and it’s acceptable. Size matters when it’s about plastic straws. There’s no shortage of radiation filled halos, plenty to go around. It’s never the children, it’s always the dead children.