You mourn, but you do not lock the door.

 

I have not yet grown tired of hearing her screams.

She is dying one room over.  There is still a scramble of concern, but there is no pain medicine.  It went years ago, almost recreationally.  At least for her it did.

The worried care must be replaced by firm service and after that, a begrudging of time and supplies.  She has a long way to go.

When will we want to kill her?  When will the right hands, the indifferent but merciful hands, drag her out back and open her skull with a rock, or steal her breath with a pillow, right there, right in front of us, next to my fucking bed.

I promised Love, that it would claw at my eyes.  'Someday you will pull off my flesh so that you can have ten minutes without pain'; You who love me.  You who showed me what care is between two people.  You will pull it all down for a miserable life to be made a little longer, if just a little less miserable.

The very hands that wash your aching fevered skin now, will climb over my children’s bodies for more air.

A burgeoning evil of need? Of impulse? Of innocent urge scrubbed of identity by pain, by long hours of pain past pleading, of wild, thoughtless pain?

Would you all pull me down by the ankles to help you swim?

Should I not see you well and truly punished with this suffering, knowing that on Wednesday, your hands will hold the gun that seeks to kill me, so you can live for five more minutes.  That you will not care for me the way you demand I care for others now.

Are you not that evil rapacious thing now, in that you will be some day?  Do I not have a reason to reach you first. Remove from your reach the thing you would use to kill me, always, even if that thing is your very life.

You mourn, and you mourn, and you mourn, but you do not lock the door.

~Punish Transcendence