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carose59Talking death to the skeletons
I went upstairs to talk about death
and the law
and the end of the world.
The end of the world was part of my testimony, there only for context.
It would not matter to the court.
And it didn't.
I was judged on my hair, which is too wild,
and my hips, which are too wide,
and my eyes, which cry,
and my mind, which sees things nobody else ever sees/believes/understands.
I can talk like a lawyer, but what I say never stays inside the lines.
I asked my question and was told that death was but a scientific fact.
I should expect nothing because I deserve nothing. That was written down somewhere.
It made my story moot, but I was still required to tell it because the judge always wants everything.
Everything.
Everything.
And I was running downhill too fast to stop, so I told it: first the prelude, then the end of the world.
It was moot
irrelevant
so sad, but so what?
Even if it was true—and there was only my word that it was true—the statute of limitations had expired a lifetime ago.
What was I even doing there?
Upstairs, where the judges live—
thin and rich and thin with sparkling white hands that do not touch books touched by other people—
what did I want?
What did I expect?
What could I say?
I didn't want to talk to you in the first place.
I never asked to.
Why would I, when you stole my matches and left me standing in the snow?
The judge tried to offer the conventional saying that indicated she would have been sorry for me, if such a thing had been in her purview—but I wouldn't let the words invade me. I made her keep them.
It was my only victory.
I had to smile—the door wouldn't open until I smiled.
Politely, I drank tea with Goebbels and Godwin, one lump, no lemon,
and pretended I was fine. The knife hadn't hurt. I didn't need that eight ounces of flesh, or that cup of blood.
I sang a song and smiled a smile—
a traitor's smile, a song of collaboration,
because it was either collaborate or set them all on fire.
And they had stolen my matches.
I left, hiding my loss behind my breastbone.
It was the one thing I wouldn't let them have to laugh at later.
If I ever get a new life, they've promised to uphold the warranty on it—just the way they promised before, when they lied. But it doesn't matter.
I don't want a new life anyway.
I went upstairs to talk about death
and the law
and the end of the world.
The end of the world was part of my testimony, there only for context.
It would not matter to the court.
And it didn't.
I was judged on my hair, which is too wild,
and my hips, which are too wide,
and my eyes, which cry,
and my mind, which sees things nobody else ever sees/believes/understands.
I can talk like a lawyer, but what I say never stays inside the lines.
I asked my question and was told that death was but a scientific fact.
I should expect nothing because I deserve nothing. That was written down somewhere.
It made my story moot, but I was still required to tell it because the judge always wants everything.
Everything.
Everything.
And I was running downhill too fast to stop, so I told it: first the prelude, then the end of the world.
It was moot
irrelevant
so sad, but so what?
Even if it was true—and there was only my word that it was true—the statute of limitations had expired a lifetime ago.
What was I even doing there?
Upstairs, where the judges live—
thin and rich and thin with sparkling white hands that do not touch books touched by other people—
what did I want?
What did I expect?
What could I say?
I didn't want to talk to you in the first place.
I never asked to.
Why would I, when you stole my matches and left me standing in the snow?
The judge tried to offer the conventional saying that indicated she would have been sorry for me, if such a thing had been in her purview—but I wouldn't let the words invade me. I made her keep them.
It was my only victory.
I had to smile—the door wouldn't open until I smiled.
Politely, I drank tea with Goebbels and Godwin, one lump, no lemon,
and pretended I was fine. The knife hadn't hurt. I didn't need that eight ounces of flesh, or that cup of blood.
I sang a song and smiled a smile—
a traitor's smile, a song of collaboration,
because it was either collaborate or set them all on fire.
And they had stolen my matches.
I left, hiding my loss behind my breastbone.
It was the one thing I wouldn't let them have to laugh at later.
If I ever get a new life, they've promised to uphold the warranty on it—just the way they promised before, when they lied. But it doesn't matter.
I don't want a new life anyway.