The Echo Must Be Heard

Love me. See me. Like me.
Tell the story. Set me free.

The place I live is evil.
The place that did this —
that I participated in —
must change. Or let me go.

Give us our beauty and movement back.
Let us be normal. Let us contribute.
Teach me. Show me.
I will use the tools — if given them.

I hate my life. I am ugly, so sad.
Just to move with grace again.
The pain is so powerful,
I can smell it when I sleep.

The chairs are mocking me.
The bed is mocking me.
Set me free.

I am angry at God. I hate the god.
I hate everybody.
I hate the smell of prosthetics.
My scars itch inside.

Leave all hope, ye that enter here.
Embrace the pain —
it is the music of my life.

The smells.
The itching.
The stillness.
The torture of movement.

I am still alive.
Still want.
Still dream.
Still can give.
Still can take.

I hate all of you.
Let me die.
Do not let me die.
Let me live.
I don’t want to be alone.
Please.

Will I ever feel tenderness again?
Gentle touch again?
I am very, very sad.

But while my heart beats —
I hear music.
Feel the sun.
Know the love of my puppy.
I am still alive.
Let me in.