My Cardboard Balcony

Counterproductive by Belinda Roddie People beg for me to sympathize after they've slammed their worn boot against my cheek, pushing and pushing me down until I'm crying with a squeaking jaw. They ask me, "How does it feel, to be ground into the dirt?" And I say, "Makes no sense for you to hurt me just because someone happened to hurt you."

Everything around the churchyard was decomposing. This was where people dumped relatives already stricken with rigor mortis. The harsh weather patterns stripped away the dry, stale flesh and lukewarm blood fairly quickly - the winds tore apart the tissue, the rain clogged up the opening pores and dissolved the salty innards of the eye sockets. In only months, there were skeletons littered beside the vestibule.