Segregated

Some people get tougher living here: Harden the creases in the corners of their eyes, permanentize the frown to look natural, like we were all born squinting at each other as if there is no other--human,--but those that are Same. Am I another species because we are not?

As if, You, are Human only; the rest lesser specimens to pick apart with your teeth. Does my Achilles taste good in your molars?

I breathe Human too, even if the symbol around my throat is not Wiccan or Buddhist or Greek for Green Peace. My Cross you despise and you wear your scorn on your lips as if I am going to rub off on you, should you take a whiff.

Yes, I said Cross. Sometimes I even say Christ before I eat.

Your curse shifts in your seat as you stare, daring the contrary when you announce to your Humans that God is Dead.

And who am I to say your Otherwise? Your knuckles are white. I am not blind.

I don't want to get rough, living here. I want to keep getting softer, keep changing and shifting because I still have something left to Know: that I have nothing left to prove. My callous surrenders to pink skin. Maybe when I am thirty I will still have petals on my forehead from sticking my nose in the flowers at your feet.

You are my Human. You are my Someone else who is fascinating, is completely different, is sometimes angry and is all the time: Beautiful.

I have a Story like you: unfinished, in the preliminary drafts that is penciled over, crossed out, pages burned so I can pretend they never happened, only to re-write them later as my Self continues to soften out. Melting down.

Edges smooth over. The cracks split and I would Pour willingly, if you sit still enough to catch Me.

You, Creature, are my Human.

Our sigh is the Same.