The plight of the disposed

The woman wanted others to know what it was like to live a life of desperation charred by the contempt of others; a life of deprivation; of fear for oneself, ones family, ones community. A fear that was chill, dark and ever present as it trampled around and trod on her eggs. A fear that invited infertility and raped the child at her feet: A foreign fear, not of her loins, but one that sat on her shoulder and spat with disgust at the plight of the wet: A fear that crept under her skin, and over her bare clothes, as it ate her flesh. A fear that laughed, mocked, stomped and circled: A fear that ruled through its power to condemn without crime: A fear that restricted the Other ever to the asylum of the catacombs and appropriated humanity to the seas of shame.

But she would push through this terror trance unimaginable, and become the mistress of her own pain. She would remain addicted to humanity and retain humility as a potent poultice for the heartbreak she felt as the others whispered promises that belied their pompous platitudes of open advancement and free association. Those whose mirror musings reflected only their blindness, their position meant to silence the continuing inconvenience of the Other. For now, she would have to make do with imagining, for she was the Other………for her the borders were closed: For now.