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 If you could rip us of our flesh. Our muscles and bones and only left us of our souls, what would I bare beyond my love? What’s more important than the sheer giving nature of who I am, who we are? What’s more important that I must stop the world to tell you?

It’s not that I don’t feel much, it’s that I’ve been churned into a society of robots, of deadweight, to think alike, to work swiftly, to suppress and starve and be okay with starving because what do we have to offer other than our calloused hands? Selling ourselves in any fashion possible because it’s all we’ve got. These bare, shredded hands. We give so we can get. We take so we can eat. We eat when it’s all we have left. If you can work for me you can feed your family. Just throw away that voice that speaks and those eyes that yearn and you’ll be the richest man alive, he says with a smirk. 

What am I to speak about when the world has stripped me of my veins, of my blood, of the only existence to my name;  my passions, my beating heart. What’s making it beat if not the thrill of being alive? Of being Alive. Of living. And feeling the hair raise on my skin when he calls my name. When the wind blows against my cheek. I’m standing on top of the mountain I was once looking up to, towering over me, in fear of collapsing my lungs, but I’m here. I’m on top now. What is there to live for in that life?

Don’t tell me it’s the little things, to appreciate the moments when they’re here because they’ll be gone before I know it. I want to devour this life. I want it to die screaming. I want to wring its neck of every word I could never choke out, every action I didn’t take for fear of being seen. I want to be seen and I want them to remember my face when they close their eyes for the last time. It isn’t the way I could find excitement in my mundane. It’s how I crushed skulls to get to where I stand. When they told me I had to wait in line so I found my struggle somewhere else, with dirt in my mouth and blood on my bare hands. How do I tell them they don’t have to reckon someone else’s savior? They can be their own.