a poetic prose
i watch my love — my last love, hopefully — kill a wasp with his boot, unapologetically. i cannot help but think of my parents as he does this, and how my father, my blood one, would do the same to me. my mother, my only one, has done the same to me. i mean, i was the wasp, but sometimes, i was a butterfly. most of the time, though, i was an annoying pile of ants — just in the way, as my mom would say. dad said i was a collector of useless shit, so he had no choice but to get rid of my things, including me in the end. i scold him for what he has done — my love, i mean.
i tell him the wasps have a purpose: to pollinate, i think. i know that was more important than its temporary annoyance in our lives. i tell him it would have only be here for a moment. he does not care. he reminds me the danger the small beast hold. he is more afraid of the insect hurting me than his nonexistent grandchildren needing to breathe. i should be honored. he swats it once more for reassurance, as if reminding the wasp that it is small and undeserving of life. he would put it down again if it somehow managed to rise. he is not afraid of vengeance or the call for just deserts because he only knows bigness.
he, my love, has forgotten what it was like to be small, because he was never the wasp and his parents were never the boot. i am jealous of…
