That man is like a god

just sitting near you listening

close to your voice—delirium—

your laughter dripping mercury

between my ribs and into

my kinetic heart. You turn

to me and I am god and

godless, full of words and

voiceless as my tongue dies and

lithe flame ignites beneath

my skin, consuming light and

sound from senseless

senses sweat erupts and

shivers grip my shoulders I

am paler than the palest grass

with swelling tiny deaths.

from the moment of your inception

you unmake yourself

into what you were made to be

behind the glimmering veil

you wreak lovely havoc

against your own foundation

carving out your own stomach

in the dry season

you’re a jut harsh and bare

most exposed in safety

peace does not become you

you are the sculptor and the sculpture

the marble, the chisel

and the dust that falls away

Independence is the most sacred myth of our people. We worship the idea that we can transcend the needs of our bodies and souls, transcend each other, depend upon no one and nothing. To be Independent is to be unmoved, unfazed, uncontrolled. Independence is a form of power that relies upon disentanglement and disengagement.

We are a proud people. We are a harsh people. Many of us sacrifice our gentleness in pursuit of this elusive Independence. Empathy dies on the altar of Independence: the price for compromising our supposed escape from suffering.

I come to you today in the hopes that this myth has not polluted your culture as well. Learn from us, and do not follow our example. Do not believe yourselves so grand that you would stand to benefit from our destruction -- for the only true Independence is death. Let us instead revere harmony, solidarity, and the absolute vibrancy of life; our intertwined fates depend upon it.

#ProseChallenge #SciFi #exceptionalism #americanmythos #empathy 

the farmer,

his sickle.

the sickness claimed her.

she's in the grains of the harvest.

still he reaps for her.

and itches his scalp

at the farce of it all.