By Rhianna Mason
Rhianna Mason is a first-year Environmental Sciences major. She plays on the women's soccer team and is very passionate about environmental conservation. Most of her work is free-form poetry with a focus on nature and mental health.
I sit on my bed
as the sunlight from the window shines through and hits my face.
I let every single sin I’ve ever committed fill up the room.
As it does, I convince myself that I was born sick.
I remember all the years I’ve lived with the disease,
the years I let it consume me,
an insatiable pest, never quite had its fill of my suffering.
I ponder on the thought of how living would be
if things were different.
If I were different.
I begin to weep, wondering why my existence plagues my soul so!
I remind myself not to be foolish.
I am the enabler of this malady.
I cannot beg for change when I have only ever begged for sickness.
Is healing possible? Is there a light at the end of the tunnel?
Or perhaps a meadow of flowers where my worries can rest?
Those all-encompassing worries of who I am, who I ought to be,
and who I never want to be like.
I used to believe healing meant becoming who I was before the fire,
but I’ve also learned there is no going back,
not when my bones have memorized the burn,
not when my DNA has catalyzed the inferno.
I am not the softest animal nor the kindest person,
I am not the sacrificial lamb who bows their head,
I am not the one that flinches at the first hint of violence
nor the second sign of harm
nor the third inklings of bruises
but still I offer my throat,
even when the taking carves me hollow,
even when I begin to rot like day-old fruit.
I apologize far too often.
I apologize for bleeding on the teeth that bit me;
I held the hands that strangled me to keep myself warm.
The memory of the flame is always at the door,
licking at the edges, burning its charred markings.
I thought I had walked away from the burning house,
so sure I would never return.
But it's cold out here.
I shiver without the weight of the burn.
I long for the warmth of the flame,
for the familiarity of the scalding burn.
The soot has left its mark on me.
Should I buy a jacket or keep walking out in the cold?
Should I return to that burning house?
Should I stick it out in the blizzard?
As I burned, you only ever complained of the smell of ash.
You complained of my belligerence.
I was only ever an inconvenience,
even as my soul rotted within.
Could you see the fruit flies flitting around my rotting soul?
Did they buzz in your ear?
I am sure you would swat them away
or allow them to burn in the blaze,
just like I did.