Nothing

Something

 "Mom, pull over." She parked the car against the curb and we both got out.

 A glistening wound caught my attention: a cherry-red gash the size of my forearm. My chest swelled for the wounded dog wandering on the sidewalk.

 I clasped my hand around my neck to bar any tears. I failed. An intense ache in my stomach spread to each bone; my body was still.

 Mom wasn't. Her open arms embraced the grey angel until she could promise him safety.

 I remained on the pavement as if wet tar had swallowed my ankles.

Anything

 A teacher was fired because of his sexuality. As a student, I wrote a petition to prove the disappointment harbored by the community.

 I was clothed in a veil of rage.

 A day later, the vice principal called. I could be "sued for defamation of character." Messages of his disappointment bolted across phone lines.

 The hour ended in embarrassment. My shaking limbs velcroed themselves to the carpet fibers; my rage withered into seethe.

 I abandoned a jobless man in an economically painful year, all for the price of my hallowed pride. All for the price of his natural affection.

Something

 My cousin's mother is an addict.

 Penny is five and reeks of fragile innocence. Every time I hear her laughter, watch her play make-believe, listen to her dreams, a heavy pressure hits my chest. Soon that innocence will vanish as her eyes adjust to the world.

 It's easier to never call, never look at her pictures, let her forget my name.

I'm afraid to watch her smile wilt once she learns of violence and hunger and death.

Once she learns her mother is an addict.

Anything

It was midnight and he drunkenly confessed he's not in love with me. He laughed because he "couldn't see a future."

Yesterday he sought warmth under my skin. Last week I met his parents.

He liked my poetry, greeted me with a kiss on my forehead, told me of his infatuation. To him I was "intriguing" and "beautiful."

Suddenly I was undesirable. I lay stunned and smiling because I refuse to show him how brutally he bruised my heart; but I felt his grip as he wrung the organ like a wet towel.

My car was in the driveway. My keys were on the coffee table. I had everything I needed to leave.

Instead, I stayed. Unable to help even myself.

Nothing

Empathy fills your body, raises the hair on your skin, tells it to move.

Do something. Do anything.

You're so quiet, the silence burns your ears. So still, your muscles ache.

Something. Anything.

But you do nothing. Nothing.

Published in Brushing Art & Literary Journal 2023