Responsibility/Sara Dillon

I breathe in toxins and exhale rage. I am told to eat, but my food is poisoned. I search for enjoyment on LED screens, but the canned laughter rots my ears. Jokes, commentary, satire, awareness. I grit my teeth and fight the urge to scream. It is an unproductive pastime. Because screaming is only helpful when there is someone there who will listen, who will help. My jaw aches. My body is restless. My feet beg to run, my fists to punch, but my lungs are weak. I’ve been consuming this sludge since nineteen ninety nine. And, I’m tired. Because once I learned how to think for myself, I was empathizing with Sisyphus. Because not all death is fair, and we should not be punished for demanding something better. If Death must fill its daily quota, why doesn’t it reap from the guilty. I am trapped in my infected body, watching as innocent lives come to screeching ends. I want to get my hands dirty, forget to clean the viscera from under my nails, and leave bloody palm prints on the faces of those who are complicit and will never repent. So, every time they open their mouth a little droplet of reminder slithers across their tongue. Even though a gallon of guilt couldn’t erase the pain carved into guns and trees, bottles and pills, blades and pavement. I wish I could tattoo names onto their skin, so whenever they bare themselves to their god, there is no mistake of what evil lies within. And they are evil, though they will try to convince you they are not. On the outside they look alive, but they are rotting from the inside. The smell seeping from their nose, and throat, and ears, and eyes just gets masked by the miasma, and I am forced to breathe it in.

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Sara Dillon is an English major with a Women and Gender Studies minor and loves to consume any type of storytelling content. She wrote this poem as a release after a stressful news week. She looks forward to moving back to Madison, WI at the end of the semester.