I was standing on a street corner when I felt a baby bird pecking at my heel. I looked down into its needy little eyes and grew suddenly annoyed. I kicked backwards and watched as it fell on its side, flapping its wings fruitlessly, trying to open its damaged beak. I didn’t feel remorse.
I spent a year carving a tribute in marble and sandstone, and even now there are chips of it stuck underneath my nails. I dedicated all my time to this monument, I washed its feet with my sweat and spent many nights with my head resting against its base trying to force a few hours of sleep before I began again. When it was finished, I looked at it and hated it. I took a hammer and smashed through the stomach, the kneecaps, the toes. Again, I felt nothing.
I’m now tearing my way through the air around me, propelled forward only by blind rage which will not pause to clear the haze from in front of my eyes long enough for me to recognize who deserves to be hurt and who just happens to be standing there. You are the baby bird sputtering and coughing up tiny flecks of blood. You are the statue I led to believe was worthy of a pedestal. I’m grinding the debris from the space you used to occupy and I will use it to darken my eyelashes. Stay away.
(This is a work in progress…)