Healing

Me? What am I to you? A face, a number, a profile in that iron brained machine of yours? Am I a list of vulnerabilities, a litany of potential outrage? Am I a thing to be subverted, subdued, beaten with the humiliation of sticks? Am I to be choked with gas, blinded by my own tears, my soft skin burst open to bleed in the dust of a lost causes?

And what do I resist, what be the cause of my unrest? I look at you, see your carapace, your armour, the benighted beetle-black of your uniform, your lack of face, and I see the emptiness of a world from which soul has fled, from which feeling, and compassion has atrophied to stone. Is this the same stone I wonder you would have me carry in place of my own heart?

But my heart beats, and it yearns. Unmask yourself then, lay down your armour and embrace me, breast to breast, vulnerable and trusting as the children we both once were. I've not forgotten those days, have survived the wasteland of your blind machination and remain of warm blood.

I can heal you.