Empathy
Sometimes I like to stick out my arms and wave them freely in the sky.
I'll stand for hours and wait and wait and wait...
I wait for the birds to come and gash open my skin with their razored talons. I welcome it. And I'll sit there, for days even, watching my wounds ooze pus and blood, festering to a rusted glow.
And I don't leave until my wounds have fermented long enough to create an intoxicating smell, one so rancid and pungent that I'll never forget.
By this time the pain has become unbearable and the infection has spread from my arms, to my chest, to my whole body. With each step I take I can feel my heart's beat fall to a whisper. My veins surge with fire, charring the products of my love.
It can take a week, or a month, sometimes even a year to completely heal, but once I'm pristine I go out there again and raise my scarred arms to the sun. I never forget. And as I stand out there with fear welling up in my eyes, shadows draw near, I am struck with the truth; the truth that one day I know I won't have the strength, and that one day I won't heal.
But I promise you, for as long as I am in control and alive, I will stand proudly out there! Why?
Because I know if I don't the birds will find a new victim, and I won't live to see it.
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