i wear blood around my neck, wrists and it drips from my ears. and i wear death to keep me warm and poverty to keep me in line with the trends. i flip through pages of destroyed homes, glossed with the forceful hands of greedy governments and companies that could not care how they acquire their resources.
i turn remember watch my carbon print but forget that the real imprint i leave in the lives of others. but when i do remember i justify it because i’m not the one ruining the lives of others. i’m not the one killing for the blood that glistens on my finger, and i’m not the one buying a lustrous mane from a bald headed beauty. i’m not the middle man, i’m only a consumer.
furthermore, i consume liberally and organically, so i’m not hurting the planet. but while the grass grows green i forget it’s being fertilised by the bodies of those who consume even more ‘liberally’ than i.
i consume to be consumed by the eyes of the lustful masses and envious others. and i consume to be heard by those who only hear so that they can have something to say back.
depression is the illness that kills me, and my parents ruin my life. not AIDS, not famine, and not rebel soldiers. i live in the “first world” where i care only if the issue is bad enough to make the news and to fill ad space on tv, but i don’t know if i care enough to send more than a prayer. i live in the “first world” so that means i come first – i mean everyone has their own problems to deal with.
i heard them say in the Bible or something ‘so the last will be first, and the first will be last’. by that logic as a “first world” i should be last, but i know if i was hungry, even by choice, i would still come first.