Tug of War
written by: S. Rin
The sun glimmers through the window in the living room.
You’re sitting by the bookshelves in your leather chair, one leg draped over the other. The sunny, warm autumn afternoon makes motes of dust dance in the sunlight.
Unlike me, who’s driven to do chores and other duties around the house, you sit still and delve into every sentence and word, just as you notice the floral patterns on my dresses.
You present a facade of serenity and cheerfulness, yet beneath it lies a tempest—a chaos akin to Mount Vesuvius before its cataclysmic eruption.
You teeter on the brink, a triangulation of turmoil that I recognize in both you and myself.
You say, “How is it we are not equal?” But darling, how can we be?
I am a form of destruction that cannot inflict harm without first turning it upon myself, while you unleash your damage upon all and everything to shield yourself from suffering.
I am judged and mocked for it, a hysteria of a sort, while you leave a trace in history, for better or for worse. How is it that you are deserving of empathy when you lack it the most—while I am judged for the compassion unmet?
We are not equal, love, no.
I have never started a war nor created a caste.
I have never forged weapons nor colonized nations.
I am not ego; I birthed children to the Earth that you’ve so well corrupted.
We are not equal; I am a thing far worse than you!
I am what sits at your feet this autumn afternoon, in our living room, with my head on your knees—your hand caressing my hair.
I hold the keys to your inferno, while you keep my gates to heaven locked.
- Tug of War - September 8, 2024
