I Think

I think

that I exist,

I think

that it’s real,

I think

that we’re alive,

I think

all of that,

but what do I know?

Nothing.

Because knowledge is

never definite,

as it could all just be

an illusion;

rain, sun, snow,

the world,

the stars…

We’ll never know

whether our eyes

are actually there

or whether all of this

is a dream.

I think I can touch it

but I know I can feel it.

I think I can see it

but I know I can think it.

Urges

Urges send my hands reaching,

clawing at what they want,

but then I stop them.

I have to stop them.

Urges control my mind,

every thought in it

wants the same thing.

Happiness, sadness,

anger, they all become one.

One spear aimed at the heart.

Whether it misses or not,

that’s up to me,

and whether I listen

to my mind.

The spear misses this time.

The Box and The Ball

The box is blue.

Inside the box is a ball.

The ball is red.

The ball doesn’t want to be inside the box.

The ball would much rather be inside a red box.

The ball jumps.

The box doesn’t move.

The ball learns to accept that it is stuck with the blue box.

The box doesn’t want the red ball to be inside it.

The box tries to open.

The box is stuck.

The box tries to crush the ball.

The box can’t get rid of it.

The box learns to accept that it is stuck with the red ball.

A yellow car comes.

In one movement, the yellow car crushes the blue box.

The blue box crushes the red ball.

The red ball suffocates.

If only, the yellow car had avoided them.

If only, the blue box had opened up.

If only, the red ball had jumped out.

Let’s Be Honest

Let’s be honest.

I’m in a black hole

that’s sucking me in deeper,

and I’m trying to reach —

reach for the stars, as they say,

but I can never make it.

Let’s be honest.

I’ve been like this for a while,

sleep is my companion

and my worst enemy,

I don’t have the motivation

to get motivation,

I don’t have the aspiration

to get aspirations,

I don’t have the strength

to get strength.

Let’s be honest.

I’m sorry I can’t pull myself away,

from the same muddled day

I’ve been living for too long,

it’s a blurred mess.

Let’s be honest,

I’m depressed.

Expectations

I’m an empty casket, don’t put a body in me. I don’t want something to sleep within me, I don’t want the weight. You expect me to fulfil my purpose, of carrying a body, of being a container for it, but I want to be something else. I want to be free. I don’t want to do that, maybe I want to have nothing inside of me, because then I can fill it with my mind and my soul, without them suffocating.

The body is going in… I’m drowning. I can’t see the body but I can feel it. I can feel the crushed emotions, I can feel the sleeping soul. I want it gone… but, you see, it is my destiny to contain this body for the rest of eternity.

Eternity? Yes. I am to be the home of this body. I can rattle and squeak… but I can’t let it out. I have to fulfil my expectations, the ones I wanted to be gone. I can’t do anything. I can’t throw the body out. I have to live with this weight.

Have to.

Expectations.

water

a splatter becomes a puddle,

a puddle becomes a pond,

a pond becomes a stream,

a stream becomes a river,

a river becomes a sea,

a sea becomes eternity.

My Brother Is an Egg [Short Story]

My brother is an egg. He is oval, white, and very fragile. Seeing him so fresh to the world, and so unknowing, it pains me. He is the purest form of life, waiting until the day of his hatching, not knowing when it will come or what will come of it. I know. Our mum knows. We don’t have a dad, they don’t need dads.

My brother is an egg. He sits around all day, waiting for his time to come. But he will never have a time. He is a boy. I cry sometimes, knowing that he will have been an egg longer than he will ever be a chicken. I am merely a chick myself, but I know more about the world than he will ever know. I know that it’s cruel; my mother has gotten so used to it that her eyes don’t flinch anymore. I remember when she used to try to warm us all. Not just me, but all of the girls. All of her many, many daughters. We’re in a cage, you see. People don’t call it a cage; they say it’s not a cage because it’s a barn, and that we’re cage-free, but I can barely breathe here. My mother has gotten crushed accidentally so many times that her feathers are mangled. She isn’t that positive anymore. I try to be, but I’m so young that they don’t believe what I say. They know I haven’t had the worst of it yet. Even after the debeaking, the most painful experience I have ever been through, they’re telling me that was just the start.

My brother is an egg. He is starting to shake. He wants to see the world, to be free, to dance. A little crack here, another crack there. He is ready. But he shouldn’t be. What awaits him is a horror story. I have only heard folk tales of what goes on but we all know the basics. They talk about it sometimes. There is a conveyer belt, and there is blades. He will not live to tell the tale.

My brother is hatching. His body is shivering, he is starting to wonder. Where is he? What is he? Where will he be going? We all know the answers, of course, but he doesn’t. He is a baby, and I want to wrap him in my wings and keep him close to me.

My brother is a chick. A hand reaches down and snatches him. He lets out a soft startled squeak. He wants to be with his mummy. Is that too much to ask? He is dragged away, and that is the last time I ever see my brother, but it is not the last time I imagine him. I imagine his scream amplified as he falls off the conveyer belt, I imagine his body being ripped apart — but that is nothing compared to what I imagine next. I imagine him running around, in a field, happy. That is what breaks my heart the most.

My brother is dead.

Stop

Stop, my ears hurt,

Stop, no more,

Stop, my mind is screaming,

Stop, I just want peace,

a space to sleep,

a space to relax,

a place to weep —

But I can’t even do that!

Stop!

I don’t know if I can take it,

my eyes are ice-cubes

unable to melt,

and my ears are hedgehogs

never withdrawing their spikes,

thanks to you

and not stopping.

I know your selfish wants

are above my needs,

but I just want serenity.

No more yells,

disturbances,

just tranquility.

Please? Stop?

Imagine

Imagine you have no tongue. It was chopped off at birth, just like they pretended your soul was, except your soul was just hidden behind ladders and ramps and hills. So you have no tongue, and you try to ask what’s going on, why are you being attacked, why is your mother over there but you’re over here? But you can’t. You’re scared, very scared, but you can’t express this fear. Your eyes are the only way of showing it but nobody looks into those, they just look at the rest of you.
The profit, as they call it.

You just want to be with your mum, you just want this to be all over with, you just want to live. But, again, you have no tongue. Because you have no tongue, you become an object. An ‘it’, rather than a she or a he. You are just another ‘it’, among a thousand ‘it’s. You don’t want to be an ‘it’. You want to be an individual. You have your own mind but it doesn’t count, because you have no tongue.

Your days go by quickly, you can’t differentiate between them. You don’t look forward to anything, or look back to anything, except the first moments you saw your mother. You wish you could still be with her. But you can’t be, because you are here, and she isn’t. You are in the area where she once was, though, getting the treatment she once got.

Being trampled by your friends because they have no choice, then being raped and forced to give up your baby, like she was, many times, then finally you are sent to the place where you will die. Some call it a slaughter house, you call it freedom, because death is better than the half-life you’ve been forced to live. Even if death is painful, which it often is, you still prefer it to before.

Nobody should have to want death. No one. Not even cows.

Whilst this post was about cows, it is also about all the other living beings still suffering. I don’t see how there is any justification for rape, just so we can get milk, which is intended for the babies, by the way. This is my way of thinking and I hope this post makes you think a bit about the industries you’re buying into.

Lia

when?

when does the time come
for me to rot into compost
and grow as a tree?
when does the time come
for you to wash your face
and your sins?
when does the time come
for my headache to leave
and yours to return?
when?
now, tomorrow, forever?
when?