YOU

You live in a world of charts and graphs. You speak statistics and recorded facts. That doesn’t just bore me, I actively detest it. What You call a cauldron of thought, I call a cesspit.
You traded in your first tongue for Their language. Taped shut the mouth of your beloved gibberish to the playground gates, a sacrifice and a proclamation: ‘There’s no room for original thought in the house of education.’
You buried those first loves that should have outlived You. You sold out all of your imaginary friends, wiped them clean from your vision like steam from a mirror and turned your back quick before they could form again.
The worlds You had built in your back-garden, erected as colour-bright circus tents collapsed peg by peg swing by swing of the mallet They handed You. The great canopies of tapestries that upheld all of your fantasies reduced from the third dimension to the second, folded puddles at your feet, resized to better stretch across your spreadsheet.
You dried your eyes quick before They could spot You.
You charted life as flat diagrams, turned flies into walks, cut off their wings as you did with angels, and threw those crumpled bodies to the wastebasket, and there they dissolved just as fast as any other in your acid vats, and through your eyes only floating bones occupy the skies, and all that looks down are grinning skeletons.
You boast of X-Ray vision, and all thoughts otherwise are just shadows in the television. You went wild with your new sight as a curious child who lifted their mother’s dress and saw her whole for the first time.
Nature’s little pervert, a head full to the brim of dirt filled in by your schoolmasters, who trained Their pets to recite tricks and taught Their parrots to echo laws chalked on Their blackboards from the dust of those who came before and were vanquished, and were silenced and erased.
You, who mock those who speak of spirituality. You, who denounce religion yet cannot see You too are fanatics of the highest degree, who suck the finger of your creed and yet You do not look at where it points. You, who lapped up every word that was served but never dared to bite the hand. You, just another warm body for the chain-gang, shackled at Their hands and feet, a prison-train, a centipede, shuffling in one direction, You, who were never taught the art of how to question.
© Josh Lonsdale, 2020
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