Reflections of Past Pleading

I reflect upon my words from past lives and I can feel the desperation— the sickening beg of a child and the grimace of men with ample bread. I suppose I was once the child smeared with dirt and find him now loathsome as he reminds the man I am of earth’s cruelty. I’m told my pleading is a means to understand emotion but I cannot grasp the possibility that all this time I have been begging not for bread but for jam. I have held biscuits beneath my coat for ages and watched them crumble each week as men pass without glance. I should confide in this child and ask him the source of the paintbrush strokes upon his skin. I do not wish to beg much longer. Reflections have often found sanctuary in my pockets— painted blue clouds beneath the thunderheads. He tells me he is searching through clouds of despair while women send their pity through silence. How I wish to hold his polluted hands. My polluted heart. I sit patiently on this invisible balcony with knives in my chest. Reflection could be therapeutic I suppose. If nothing more I should inspect the soles of my child’s shoes for I have known myself to crush memories beneath my feet. How I wish to capture this boy’s misery from his eyes and house it for years to come. Our wounds fester and heal from afar— this has always been and will always be our reflection.

— ODH