By Rachel Curtis

Most people aren’t that great or awful
Their currency bleeds from their outstretched palms
Their money oozes and floods, ebbs and flows, and so
Their happiness collects and drips like mist
On a leaf

As does their sorrow.
And I begin to think that maybe this human behavior is so far out of our
Maybe injustice is like the gas that flares out from the sun
And joy is like the worms that run from a rainstorm.
And we are better off not trying.

And we all shall behave just as we are trained
Then, at least, there would be less pain.

Dull grief gnaws at their heart until all feeling cries “no more!”
And the head weeps its eyes away and it plugs its ears
And all nerve is lost.
And so the human fumbles timidly
Afraid to reach but unable to stand still
Hoping that maybe something good might stumble forward
But expecting nothing.

And we behave as we are trained.

Not instinctual or exemplary.
And we are made alone
Caring for no one but the voice inside our own heads
Nothing but the feelings on our skin.

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