The Horse's Suicide

The very thought of us brings images

of a horse strapped to a garden hose,

being choked

by the migraine you have brought to us.

For the horse did not ask for you

to ride it into battle.

It did not ask for you,

no not you. You are no master

of any matter.

This horse is not asking for you

to be its rider but it is asking for you

to leave it alone by the river.

The river where it can drink,

run

be free.

But no. You strap the saddle to the horse

and use it as a shield.

And you’re never asked whether you feel ashamed

abusing this horse so.

And the man in the wizard hat comes to tell

the fortunes of the horse and it does not look great.

He brings a bell

and rings it thrice.

You hear it the third time but none else.

The horse in battle is not a horse.

It is a comforter for you.

It is a pillow for you.

It is something that nestles you but that it is–

it is something.

Never someone.

Never more than a savage animal.

Yet you, with your prominence love to recognise

the heroic achievements of your horse.

“This horse!”

You exclaim.

“This horse is a war hero!”

But the horse is damaged and has struggled through

the dirt you did not have to walk for fear of dirtying your shoes.

For they were more expensive than what you bought the horse for.

And you pull reins into its jaw to silence it.

And you create barricades to hold it.

“But this horse is a hero!” You exclaim.

Give it the freedom it deserves and it will eat you alive.

This horse is more than a horse.

This horse is a horse who has

suffered

struggled

fought.

You have sat on its back, racking against its jaw

and acting its support when it has supported you against its will

all this time.

You ask me “my friend, what is a horse strapped to a garden hose?”

And I tell you that the horse cannot escape.

The horse is silent.

The horse is your comforter.

The horse is the real hero,

the one who has

suffered

struggled

and fought.

And yet you still do not understand that you must step aside.

You stand in front of it, speaking words into its mouth as the horse,

teeth into the garden hose-

makes its last attempt at choking itself.

It cannot take much more of you.

You have become the unbearable silencer of a gun–

your bullets spitting things the horse must do to gain the “freedoms”

of being pushed back on to the battlefield in your defense.

It pulls hard

and collapses.

The horse has struggled enough.