Challenge Accepted

Tonight, I challenged God.

I told him if I woke up

the next morning I must have a purpose

on this Earth. I medicated.

Two ibuprofens, a shot of NyQuil,

and some sips of vodka.

I knew these things were not going to kill

me. I knew I would survive.

My challenge was not for me to die, but for me

to be renewed. I wanted to wake in pain, agony,

my guts pulling themselves out of my throat.

I wanted the experience of having my stomach

pumped. I wanted to feel something.

I cried last night. I wanted to be the person remembered.

I wanted to be eulogized, mourned, victimized.

My life had no meaning other than to help

those who wished to spit in my face. I had earned

the role of the oppressor,

though I would never do such a thing.

I am the oppressed, but my identity

is forever taken by my oppressor. He gives me

his title. My oppressor never does anything wrong.

It is always my fault. Yet, I cried last night.

My oppressor hammered the numbers 12-13 into my back.

The year of my ultimate downfall.

My oppressor – sorry, I used the wrong title –

the oppressed was the bringer. The oppressed

verbalized his hatred. He gave me a new name.

He named me fat, nigger, faggot, dike, coon, and bitch.

But it was okay for him to do so, he was

the oppressed. What good would it do for me

to have an identity? I am the oppressor.

I kept the walkways and living areas free

of litter, but the oppressed was not happy;

the whip fell to my back. I insured that the oppressed

was kept safe, but I was left out in the cold.

I sent encouragement, though I was spat

on and kicked in the ribs. I listened

to the oppressed's troubles, but the abuse

was soon to emerge again. The abuse always

varied between verbal and emotional trauma.

I thought of the knife again, last night.

It was during the crying festival

that I became accustomed to.

This time, the knife went vertical.

The knife never touched my skin,

but mentally, the knife ran through

my skin plenty of times.

More like eighty-five or more times.

The knife was an old friend of mine.

He was named the liberator. His task

was to set free the oppressed from his

oppressor, which was me. The only way

to do that was to kill the oppressor.

Suicide was no solution to this problem.

Those who commit suicide were said

to be heading to hell. Why would I want

to go back into the situation I was already in?

12-13 was my hell. I was whipped for not

being too clean. Spat on for holding back

harsh words. Kicked for caring too much.

Shot for being too much of a friend.

Stabbed for lying to myself

about the oppressed's comings

and goings. Stripped of my humanity

for trying to see the oppressed in a better light.

Last night, I challenged God.

When I woke up, I felt disappointed.

I wanted to feel something again.

But, what I felt was all the pain that I

became accustomed to thanks

to the oppressed; my oppressor.