T. Corpuz Writes

Alone. Impossibly, immeasurably alone. Not in any real sense – I have the love and support I’ve cultivated for myself. But shouldn’t there be more? So few people actually see me. Friends, family, something adjacent. None of them understand who I really am. It’s there for them all to see but none take the time to scratch beneath the surface. I want to show them. I NEED to show them. But they are content to know me at my shallowest. They see my shadow and don’t dare to see who casts it. Does no one care to understand why it moves about so frantically? Can no one see its crooked lines?

I serve my purpose. My charm sustains my perception. But what of my fears? Who dares to challenge them. Is my nobility so imperceptible? All my effort in vain. Tears shed over the nothingness that remains of my soul. Crushed and mangled by the weight of the life it leads. Left to die by the people for whom it carried water. Can’t you see my desperation? Can’t you see my crooked lines?

Onlookers look through me – bloodied and bruised – and not one stops. The world is spinning far too fast for that. Wreckless and out of control. There isn’t the time or space in a world to hate for a helping hand. We are left alone to pick up the pieces of our undead, decaying corpse. Just how crooked are my lines?

We are the same, you and I. We feel compassion. We feel love. We share the burden of empathy. We grieve. We lust for pain in the same breath we experience it. We are the same, you and I. How crooked are our lines? They are that way by design.