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Excision

Sean J Mahoney

That’s right. I give up. I don’t want anything. Nothing more
than to work 60-70-80 hours a week for the change that
as a chump, I deserve. I do not want options. I do not
want to influence. I have not earned the privilege
to be heard. Never mind that I was born here and have
no color. Or I have all colors? I forget which. It does
matter right? Just ask a selection of the nine. No matter.
I am not what the founders had in mind. I trust you implicitly
to follow each letter, each word and deed of the paper we
hold close. Without making contact. And I do not need
to know what it actually says. I know you have my back
in your sights just about everywhere I go. My back as in
we are in this together right?. Associations. My back is sore
from labor’s floor. It’s OK. The idea that I hold sway over
my body is unthinkable in this day and of this adult age.
The idea that I command my body - create things of
and produce things from me and do things, eat for example,
for me of all people. Reward it. Pet it. Bathe it. Pet it.
It is the fluke. Like when it breaks and needs repair.
I have nowhere to go and my mortality is my quick
and brilliant mistake. I would not have this body were it
not for you taking my care on your shoulders and twisting
me straight out of desires. Desire to thrive. I care not for how
I will be broken. The lie is that I should care about my
health. I am worth dimes. I know that I am less than
personable. Less than person. Less than how you draw
and redraw me. None shall ask anything of you anymore.
Not even they that should for who and what they are
supposed to do as an estate. A paltry, pasty and salt poor
extension of you. The fourth of you. And therefore not worthy
of being in the same piece as you or breathing the same
air you take. In fact, air is overrated. I would sign over mine.
I don’t want to seem needy or greedy or haughty. I will sleep
under trees for as long as you let them stand. I won’t need
clean water. I can just skin the middle. I will never have what
you have. And I shouldn’t have what you got for I have not
studied enough law yet nor received the proper pedigree yet
to see what it is that I do not have. What I know of as school
is labor. The sweatshop is my community; the stable my
room with many boards. This is where I’ve segregated.
I think that is the right word. And without access to words
where I am most stable among others. My one speck
of normal. I see others. Allow me others like me. Grant me
company. I will just go out and spend what I have. I will
purchase all I can. Like you do. Buy things for my...tree.
I have already stopped asking questions. Forgive me
for thinking that we -
you and i -
were somehow the same. It has never been about us for
as long as I can focus my head to remember. Yesterday.
Last month. 5 years ago. Longer? It has never been about
us.

Please grant me serfdom. Appoint me peasant. Make my
world the third and last world. Give me just one freedom
to start with. And now that you have it all so to speak, speaking
in my own voice I wish you to know that from here, from this
Nth degree, I will be complete again. And when I say you I mean
the collected you, the collection of you beholden only to you.
You are the one I keep my eye on. I keep you close. You are
so small. And for the sake and security of others you will know
regret.

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