My Portrait

I | Fate is the Betrothed

If the cells in us, managed to form a complete and comprehensible system, a society;
They would've abandoned us long ago.

I do not mind letting this linger in the grey of my brain.
Only a fool, perhaps a drowned in ego would say "My, what sort of accusation is this?!"

Then I would like to ask, pray tell what might the cells do, then?

If they formed a society would they let us be it's residents?
If that is true my point remains,

They would be wholly blameless if they had taken us as residents, then reiterated what we had done to them.
Perhaps as a form of revenge or simple spite that they were unfortunate enough to work for the human.

For this reason alone I dreaded the possibility of it happening ever since my tenth.
I did feel my skin bubbling which set a base for my doubts in my questionings related to my existence, all because I was too scared to be human and be a target for the the thing that lives inside me,

For not this reason alone I did not count as human.

As for my youth I always bore many talents.
An ability to let a smile linger on the face of whom is in front of me, whether a racist or a.. racist; I felt great pride seeing their ego subside unconsciously and I became a source of muse, a source of evasion from the worldly matters; did they ever know that I was a haunting alien imitating a vacation.

It's not that I felt pride in outcasting myself, rather I wanted to be as normal as they were even if normal meant completely out of reason from my point of understanding.

Still I could not rest at night from the jealousy that though my soul wishes to take like they do; I could not do but give.

I am not charitable; I simply feared their responses and disgust at a humorless girl.

For I did not fear the cells only, I feared humans like I feared I am part of them.

I used to draw, I drew everything I did not have as a form of helpless wish for it jumping out from the canvas and into my life.

Though I stared at the mirror for hours a day waiting for a twitch, movement, an irrefutable sign that there was truly a devil in my skin;
I realized although the hours were spent and I was a prodigy at art I unjustly could not draw myself a portrait.

No matter the colors I mixed every time I would pick a tanned color I would blink again and see that I had drawn the nose a bit bigger, or one eye is not existent, or a third eye.

I remember vividly when they used to praise my unique art, I quote: "Now where did you learn how to do that, lucky girl?"

Sometimes they went to the extent of telling me they'd pay hard cash for a portrait. (How I wish I had placed the gun, at their heads instead).

And if I didn't know any better, I would've said that they were the fiend, the red hated being everyone attributes their sins and wrongdoings to.
I would've said so for the embarrassment they caused me, to make me truly believe I was lucky.

Now I have come to discern with obvious reasoning that even when I was attributed with luck and talent I was simply, probably, even less unfortunate than the aforementioned cells.

"Treat other with kindness, it might repay you, Dammy," I remember my mother saying it as though she's planted a potent seed in my head and that I would grow to a gorgeous plant.

Yet I've found from mainly experience that kindness, my mother partially right, does not go unnoticed; rather it beats you up, it scolds you and kills you.

I refused to believe that my mother was one of two people that say this type of advice:
She, was either a naive woman (or helplessly trying to shelter her only child from harshness of this world, in these cases I blame her)

Or, because she truly knew the reality of my being and refused to live in an illusion that I was a gorgeous rose, that I was much like the fly that lingers in your ears before, ultimately, dying in it annoyingly.
In this case I love you, mother. For you've sheltered me despite knowing the extent of myself.

Other than my lack of use in this world I've developed an enthusiastic attraction to a light of this world.
Though I would like to blame the omnipresent for placing me, an imp in truth to be in charge of an Angel; I also found it much more intriguing to live in a dimmed light than the regular dark my kind lives in.

My Angel was but a man, and he calls himself Simone.

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"Euthanasia."
I heard him slam down his hands on the lectern, though I imagined it to be an altar, I just saw it that way because of what he wore.
Although would never be a priest at a wedding, the ritualistic robe he wore as valedictorian that day suggested a prankster or a very horrible clothing stylist.

I saw "prankster".

"A horrible concept, or something begotten from pity?" he continued while his smile turned sheepish but his words sinister.
"Dogs, cats, any pet you might have, submit to the school board for euthanasia is free of charge today!"

I catch myself repeating this to him as we met up in our university's cafeteria.

"Euthanasia..." I repeated in his same tone of voice that he spoke in years ago on that graduation day, and his face turned scarlet with laughter as he remembered, he tried covering his smile with the red coffee mug but it was just futile.

"I mean, principal Mr. Fisher and faculty, they all expected a speech about how a teacher changed you into the better." I paused, wondering for a minute if he would laugh again like this in public, probably not so I should savor this moment.

"But Simone thought euthanasia was a better topic." I smiled too.

He stuttered for a bit, maybe due to laughter or he saw something in his coffee mug, a reflection maybe. He adjusted his glasses.
"Nonetheless a.. a-teacher did come to the school board with a sick parrot." He looked up from his coffee mug, but not completely at me.

"I can only imagine Mr. Fisher's face, complicated between embarrassment and anger, a vein between his two eyebrows,"

"you would love to see that, Dam."
His eyebrow twitched up as he looked at me.
I only nodded once and continued sipping my mug.

It's small hang-outs like this that make me truly withstand another day in Yale, even if it's just going scavenging for Sir Pawlittle (Our dearest cat, since we haven't seen him for some time) or some coffee and studying though I can never truly study in a public space.
But something feels wrong now with Simone that I can't quite place my finger upon.

The first time I met him he was a joyous boy in kindergarten, our parents knew each-other so we easily became playmates.

I remember watching him struggle with a paper plane that didn't soar the sky like he wanted it to.
"Let me show you."
I waited for him to wipe away his tears before I adjusted his plane, and soon enough his airplane soared the sky like he wanted it to.
Though this was years ago and now I am twenty I still remember how the clouds looked that day, I was born with a blessed memory.

Even though in the future that wouldn't matter much anymore.

Despite my profound efforts of trying to ignore just how apathetic he has become these two years my mind boggles as I return to my dorm from the cafe at how a jovial boy became someone like him.

I exhale and feel my lungs getting punctured but sigh pleasantly as I see the hanged calendar and Simone's birthday nearing.