yeah?

I’ve spent my last years moving boulders and chasing away thunderstorms. You’ve moved your ass from the couch to the sofa and whined about it. Fuck you. Fuck you for thinking you’re special. You’re not, and we aren’t the same.

Your blood tastes like burnt cigarettes and reeks like wastewater. A cold-blooded gecko creeping across the forest floor at night. A white Honda with no scratches parked next to the white picket fence. Love letters that you don’t deserve piling at your family’s door. It must be really hard for you, yeah?

My blood looks like TV static and sounds like white noise. A ghost crying for help inside an abandoned TV broadcast station. Bone wind ruffling grass in the morning. A swing set on a cliff. A beaten up car with bruises and scratches that aren’t covered by insurance. Spam mail and invoices are the only things piling at my door.

I have more of it than you – blood. Too much, so it tries to flow out of any hole it can find: ears, nose, eyes, pores. I don’t mind. The pressure makes me stronger. I push it back down, silently. By myself. Without bitching about it. I don’t pretend like I’m something special for doing it. And that’s the difference between you and me, yeah?

I hope one day you read these words and they cut you deep, leave little scars on your body that you’ll forget about until ten years down the line when you look at yourself in the mirror and live it all over again. Move the Earth and then I’ll hear what you have to say. Or you can just keep standing there with that dumb look on your face.