That morning, I picked mushrooms.
They were red, almost round
like a tomato, with little white flecks
clinging to their domed caps.
Their earthy smell filled my nostrils
when I pulled them from the damp,
sandy soil, pine needles still clinging
to their sticky surface.
I was so excited for my find.
I was so thrilled to show them off.
But then you burst through my joy,
tore my dreams from my tired fingers,
and tossed them into the dumpster
with my harvest. I felt alone. I felt
unheard by those sworn to love me.
I lay in my bed unmoving, my spirit
screaming in pain and sadness.
I just wanted the pain to end.
You’re not sorry for what you did.
You hold no remorse for the fresh
red mushrooms you destroyed,
the irrevocable time you squandered,
the suffering and shame you caused.
I cannot argue with you: in your mind
you are absolutely in the right.
To you, I am a possession. A tool.
A doll god gave you to command,
unwillingly sworn to obedience.
I try so hard to hate you, but
I cannot hate someone who truly
believes that they love me,
even as they beat my soul down.
But someday I will rise to my feet,
look you in the eye devoid of fear,
and fate will compel you to reap
the harvest which you have sown.
In your eyes, I know I will see only
unwavering self-righteousness,
and the conviction that you
have done me nothing but good.
It makes me sick.
