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Let my hands stay still and let my words run dry. Let the fear of leaving paralyze me until my body becomes the dust upon the ground of the dying earth. You can ask me why I am afraid of dying and I will answer you
I am afraid of living still.
Still as in stalk still: Still as in not moving, not breathing, not turning the wheels of my life that are attached to the spokes of the government. My legs are tired and when I say tired I don’t mean from walking. I mean my legs are tired from carrying the weight of taxes on my shoulders. I don’t support just one family, I support many.
My body is stock still. My arms are weak as noodles that are cooked on high in a pot for five minutes longer than the directions told me to; because I’m a rebel. My fingers fidget with the tattered hem of my shirt, torn from making rags to wipe the tears of my children because they are afraid that mommy won’t come back from her factory hour shift, and I am criticized for not spending time with my children.
You see, I have no fear of dying. I have a fear that fifteen years down the road I will be wound so tightly around spokes that my body won’t be buried in a coffin, but a packet of Ramen Noodles. Sad enough that I can guarantee those Ramen Noodles will be more flavorful and healthy than the twenty-eight cent wax death, we sell to kill off the poor in our grocery stores.
You can say I am depressed, but depression isn’t the only thing that knocks at my door. Anxiety and paranoia knock just as often, sometimes on the windows and the ceiling. The only escape is to wrap my noodle arms around my eyes and sing “go away” until the FBI agent in my phone’s Siri tells me I can open them.