Maybe I'm too sensitive for the world.

Where a lack of empathy is worn, like a rusted badge of honour upon a hollowed breast and a sour mouth spits venom.

Virtual pissing contests, argue over a tolerance for watching cruelty and malice,
Echoing laughter bouncing off the buzzing screen walls, at tormented creatures.

Am I truly weak, for caring?

When every word and image is an ice-cold needle prick to my skin,
blistering ache in my bones
and I fear I'll choke from the retched gore in my chest.

'Stop' I cry, 'Aren't we better than this?'

The only reply I hear, a mingled hush of crinkled-nose sneers and loathed whispers.

Maybe I am sensitive,
But maybe not too much so.

Maybe you are just cruel.

Atop your cardboard soapbox of human superiority, a gaping maw where your heart should be and a video camera in your palm.

In your next life, maybe you'll be reborn as a brown-shelled creature, a double-sided menu of poisons developed just for you.

Maybe you'll be a once-loved feathered being, flocking to city centers for scraps, and spikes spread to dissuade your starved and fragile bones.

Maybe you'll become a furred rodent, metal bars above your neck aching to snap,
or a scaled pair of jaws inching closer, a fleshy faced being watching the spectacle from behind dusty glass.

Maybe I'm too sensitive.
Maybe you're just cruel.


Maybe.
Just maybe.

© Amelia Tuson