The Ideal

Where do the tortured really die? In the chair of demise or in the tomb where they lie? In their sound-proof cells, do they bother to cry? Or when they live perfect lives and are shielded from pain - what's the purpose of crying at birth when we aren't permitted to cry on earth? My body forbids self-pity and my eyes couldn't keep a secret if they tried. I wish I could see you one last time but I don't have the heart to say goodbye. Like I promised you before, I'll take you with me when I go, just not in the way we both had planned: I'll be the dust and you'll be the sand that travels toward the most attractive destination. I'm the dirt that's left behind at cremation. Not fit to be buried, nor to be blessed. Just left to collect and be consumed with the rest. Building up 'til it forms a fearful pile. Like a true prize-winner I'll run a mile. A circus performer, a pet for show, I'm taught never to say no. And in turn, I've forgotten how to smile; it's been so long since my eyes have been dry. I'm trained to bare my teeth and try not to cry. After all, who would want such a sad display? No, no, she must be perfect in every way. Perfect on cue, whatever they say.