4 - Not being real

 

 I am not real.

I hide in the corner of this room, trying to think like a chair or a table, so that THEY might miss me when THEY come.

Most of those I know left here the first day, dragged out, dumped onto the street, separated from their suitcases and loved ones – THEY telling them no one will need anything.

Those of us who resist find out what they mean – blood flowing on the cobblestones as black boot step over us.

Even some of us who don’t resist, end up like that, a bag of flesh left in the street with the rest of the useless luggage to get collected later and searched for valuables – gold teeth melted down for German rings, excess hair matted into mattresses for submarines.

I think that if I am something else to start with, THEY won’t need to take pieces of me away, leaving my hair on my head, my skin on my bones, my teeth standing crooked in my mouth.

I stumble from room to empty room, seeking a place where I might stand unnoticed.

I hear the labored breathing of others hidden from view, scared souls seeking refuge in rafters I already know will not save them.

We cannot hide like that.

THEY will always seek us out.

We must become something they won’t recognize as us, something acceptable in their eyes, something they will recognize as real.

I just don’t know what to become, a book shelf, a foot stool or even a lampshade.

 


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