scabs

i wonder why i did it? is it just idle curiousity that leads us to poking old wounds? i pushed down on the scab, i poked around the edges, i scratched at it ... its just a think dry mound of dead skin. its sealed tight. the festering, the rotting, the hurting ... sealed tight forever. below my thick skin.

i bowed my head and ran away from the courtyard. the other kids went on playing. u walked away without your half of the shame. so i took that with me too. its still here, in the palm of my hand. i sneak a look when i'm about to forget

a tiny bird flew down and hopped into the shade of the bush. bright and cheery. is it a robin? a lark? a sparrow? just behind her a trail of blood. below her a thorn sticks out. its a thornbird. it flies and hops everywhere with a thorn in its flesh. so that it can never forget. what it can never forget is that its the lowest, the meanest, the ugliest, basest, most useless of all creatures. god made it by mistake. but when he tried to undo his error, it was too late. so he gave him the thorn. so that he never forgets. so that he remembers to stay away from other birds. so that his shadow never falls on anything else. every now and then some kind soul will feel sorry for such a poor little bird. a hand will stretch out, with some morsels of food. he will simper. hop on. then peck at the hand till it shal bleed. he will thus ensure, that he is always hated. that he always gives pain to everyone who is nice to him. he is thr thornbird. the vehicle of night in gods days.