She has never cried so hard, so utterly, in her life. She cries as if her life depended on it. In fact, lives do depend on it. Dark, angry clouds haven’t even known raindrops the size of her tears. O’ the hurt. Her gapping mouth frowns with wails from her agony. I haven’t realized how my face contorts from the mere sight, the mere sight of…my wound. I’ve been wounded by the mistreatment of Humanity who sits curled up like an abused child, precious child, in the corner of our souls, neglected by the US; neglected by the STATE; neglected by this administration; and what hurts—o’ it hurts—even more, neglected by my fellow death row prisoners, whose faces turn away from this child because they feel they don’t deserve her. And when they turned their confused faces with tears in their eyes, it ripped a hold through my flesh; one so profound, I can peer through it to my Soul, to that child, the child that cries.
I lay wounded in the ditch of my cage, left to die, this child and me. Passerbys hear the cries from my wound—their reflection, but they refuse to face themselves, passing US by. My wound cries for US, which means YOU. The child in me, in US, needs YOU. WE can heal, but it must be TOGETHER; I can’t do it alone,
…My wound is bleeding my Soul.
please don’t pass US by.