Rotten Empathy | Prose & Poetry

There is nothing to say. The wind blows from the north. There is this
thing in the heart that makes me look left and right. Before crossing the boundaries
of life. This same terrible thing forces me to look back and plant a seed of doubt. Is this right? Is this wrong? Am I a good
child? A competent human being? What am I doing here… 12th July is my birthday, and I stand on the
scale of time, anxious by the countdown. I look left and right and under myself. Where
is my past? Where is my future? Covering my ears and clawing at my eyes, I do not wish
to know what others are doing. Why are they happy? Why are they successful? Tell me, what
is sorrow like? My emotions. Are they the same as yours? Why
is yellow the colour of sadness. Why can’t I wear these shoes that I like? Am I being
disowned for this coat that I wish to wear. How can my eating routine make me a horrible
child? These reasonings which I fail to understand. Do they make me less human than everybody
else? The wind blows of the east. There is a rot
in the bark of this tree. Here is a sour smell on my hand from the sweaty iron rail. I imagine
the shine of the gun aimed at my head, a silver bullet that plunges through my mother’s heart.
There is a kitchen knife and so much blood. I stand over my sister’s body and scream.
What is life and what is that other thing. Where is the meaning of me. I scrape my nails
across my skin, hoping the answers would appear. There is only blood. I leave a pink razor at the hotel beside a
half-used bottle of shampoo and board a plane back home. I hate the smell of the complimentary
bar soap. Laughing with the man who I call father, who
screams at me in the car. He pays for my tuition. I pretend to listen to him. Someone like me
does not understand pride, or ego, or dignity, but the thin line of my mouth understand ingratitude
very well. Is this childishness, am I being stubborn, or just a horrible human being? I am content with wondering; the answers never
make sense. The wind blows from the south, but I do not
feel it. My eyes have stopped working, and my ears can no longer hear. If there is life
in this shrivelled heart and reason in this empty skull, I can no longer understand them. The corpse that lies on the pavement is cremated
by the sun. I am rotting with empathy.

2 thoughts on “Rotten Empathy | Prose & Poetry

  1. Dope poem : ). Liked and subscribed.

    I also do poetry, check out my channel and subscribe if you like!:

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