and let me kick you off a bungee

The unsettling silence creates discomfort, the way my blood thunders through my veins and casts away the knowing quiet— (she cannot face me) I do not feel offended, do not think she is wrong for not wanting to gaze upon whatever I've become (the irritation, the faint smell). I wouldn't want to look at me either. But I will not tell her that, will instead keep my head tucked close and ears drawn back, subtly defensive as I feel so vulnerable before a gaze I cannot see but can feel. I feel her eyes on me, taking me in with pity (she's sorry for me). I will not say anything, will not let my cracked lips part and my hushed voice protest against her burrowing eyes— I will stay quiet.

Let her look me over, let her see how ugly this world truly is (for who does this to a child?)— Momma does this to children, it is Momma who takes them and breaks them and cannot look back upon their weakened souls or dare to fix them. She can only lay beside them and coo unceremoniously and hope that is enough (it isn't)— her carefully decided whispers do nothing to deter me, to keep me from tensing and trembling at the idea of her blood stained mouth kissing me so lovingly. I do not want it, do not want it. But she will keep doing it because it makes her feel better, because it is her she is trying to comfort, not me— not the beaten Child lying in defeat in the red sands. I don't think Momma knows how to comfort me, doesn't know what to do with the Child she mangled, doesn't know how to fix me. Perhaps she thinks the farther away she gets from me, the better I'll get, and so she leaves me to my own crippling darkness to fend off her own.

Finish what she started— suddenly there's no air in the world, no ocean at my hooves or sun on my back, just a cold emptiness and the irregular pounding of my heart (be still, let me go). Finish what Momma started? The feeling of my flesh tearing, warm blood signifying the separation of tissue and the peeling away of my freshly cleaned hide (I can feel it all flaking off, the thick smear of red across my face, pouring into my lone eye). I feel the panic, the stuttering breathes and stillness of my body (everything stopped) as the first eye was pulled free, muscle removed carelessly (she was in no rush, there was no reason to be careful. I am her Burden, not her Light). I inhale sharply, lungs ablaze with terror at the idea of there being a need to finish what Momma started— will she do what Momma couldn't? What she woke too soon to do, the final step to taking away her suffering— take me away from here, finally offer this broken body peace and this weary young mind rest. Weeks into my life and I am weighted down by my fatigue, by the pain of my own existence (there's too much, it all hurts too much).

No— no that's not what she means (Damned, Cursed to live another day). She means the wounds, the pain, she can take it away but keep me breathing, keep my heart pumping (that's not what I want). I want to ask her to leave it be, to let me suffer intolerable pain and know just truly how much my existence will hurt— Momma wants me gone, so why stay any longer than I must? I've already overstayed my welcome, the moment I began to grow within Momma's cursed womb, I was overstaying. Now is my time to go, when Momma will be thankful (thank you for taking Her away, she was a burden I could not face). I will be thankful too.

Trust is a hard thing to give, a difficult thing to earn, something precious and rare that I have only just begun to understand— I am hesitant to trust, to offer myself so easily to someone I do not know at all (who is she? Why does she care for me in ways Momma does not?), but what more can she do to me? I am the epitome of pity, any more damage and Death and I will finally share a word. That is the best outcome, the one I want (she is here to prevent it, to take it away from me).

"Okay," I say quietly, the word drawn out along my parched tongue and hesitance lacing the simple reply. There is nothing left for me to lose. So I wait patiently, the unfortunate nothingness all that I have to keep my mind from questioning what it is she'll do to me (will it hurt? Will the pain of Feeling finally go away?). Can she fix a heart that was never warm in the first place? And it comes finally, the feeling of her warm breathes ghosting over my face, over the thickly packed crust of blood— does she know where to begin? Weeks of grime have clung to the matted disaster, shielding the world from the destruction of my face (who would want to see it anyway?), my chest burns as my entire being holds still, waiting.

The pain is terrible, excruciating as I feel (for a second time) the skin of my face peeling away from the bone, tissue tearing and mouth gaping (this isn't Momma). At first I can hold my tongue, can bite my lip until it busts and bleeds, can bite my cheek until a chunk parts from the wall of my mouth and I have to stop. She is slow, but not experienced (it's not often someone's eyes are torn from their sockets) in handling this injury as the familiar burning fluid slips down my cheeks (it really hurts). I can feel my tissue cling to the bandages, clinging as they're peeled away from my freckled skin and cast aside. "Hurts... hurts too bad." I want to shake my head, to toss it away from her and flee before she can make it hurt more (Momma's looming over me, her teeth are bared, she's getting closer—) than she already has.

I don't, whether out of fear of taking away more tissue and creating even more disaster— or because there's the beginnings of trust planted somewhere between us, promising to flourish into something greater than anything I will ever have with anyone else.

It all comes flooding back, the vibrant red of my own blood pooling in my empty socket, in my widened eye that awaits its fate— the snapping ivory teeth that grasped the delicate organs and yanked, sawing away at the cord that kept my world alive. "Fuck, fuck stop! Shit fuck shit. No more!" Suddenly it's too much, and all I see is Momma's empty, terrified face as she swooped down to take what was never hers, but never mine— she stains the grass with her own flesh and blood Child, the Burden she hates and wants dead. "Stop! Let die! Dead! I want to be dead! Not this!"