There's no escaping reality. |
Needles I heard about the child who went off the road in a pickup and died in the water, and I cried for two days afterward. I read about the family who were shot dead for being decent. It hadn’t occurred to them that their good intentions would offend the darker nature of those who would quiet them, and yet, it was done. I lost my passion for dinner that night. I saw a tale unfold about a baby who was struggling to make it through, and didn’t, which made me want to crawl into bed with the curtains drawn. Babies, children and innocents should always make it through I think, but I am not a god, and I have no power over atrocity, not even a tongue with which to suck out the poison. I left each sad chronicle behind me knowing that I am a little bit more in the know about the blacker things in life with undying anatomies that feed on purity. A virulent needle pricks my skin, flooding my blood with a noxious essence which plants unsavoury themes in my mind, but I seem to focus on the tiny hole in my arm, rather than on the infection. Then, I am surprised that I have trouble with the breathing. |