from the collection of: m. gantee
How do I tell you that you’re going to die? It goes like this:
The hatred you feel towards the capitalist pigs of the world doesn’t matter. The distaste for the self-indulgent oligarchs and egocentric (orange-skinned) braggarts of the world dissolves like a meaningless rime of salt on the forehead of a drowned man. The violence you exhibit toward the senselessness of greed and those who reep chaos disintegrates into the soil beneath your feet. These things do not matter. There are children of Ignorance and Want – these, too, no longer matter. The wind will be all that matters. And the rain, too. All things that shift this way and that in throatless whispers and endless moans matter. They bring you down to the ground – gently or in a crumpling heap. (Either way, it doesn’t matter, for you will taste the dirt with your gasping mouth.) And, as all things darken, you will think on the hands that held you close to another body – hands that are small and chubby and filled with the immediacy of joy or hands that are long, weathered, and slow with age. You are mine, those hands say. And you will think on these hands that have held your flesh to their own flesh and those hands or the memory of those hands will be all that matters. For you are no longer your own. You were never your own. And now you will be forever theirs.