Jun 6, 2017
This content contains explicit and sensitive information that may not be suitable for all ages.
I feel like the rubble you find on the sidewalk. The driveway. The path behind your house.
Sitting there, but you don’t notice it, as insignificant as a fleck of lint on your shirt.
It appears broken, incomplete, as though it has been splintered off from what made it whole.
Sometimes it bounces off you, leaving the faintest mark of dust that can be easily blotted away.
Sometimes you kick it, paying it no mind at all.
But sometimes you play games with it, try to make it keep up with you or get it to rest perfectly on a crack.
It doesn’t really cross your mind the repercussions it could have being moved from its resting place, its comfort zone.
You don’t think about whether it was there for you to be used for your liking, there to meet your expectations.
The rubble. The gravel. The fragments. It doesn’t even deserve one given name.
It’s always there to be what other people need it to be or for other people’s use.
Or it lays there, invisible and of no consequence.
On that driveway, pathway, sidewalk, waiting, not knowing if today is the day it’ll be noticed. And noticed in what way?
What’s its purpose anyway?