I’ve been with you longer than you know.
I’m so tired now. My trunk aches from picking up all your secrets. My legs are tired from carrying their weight. My skin has hardened from all the anger, all the fear and rage that your secrets carry with them.
I wear all of your scars too.
It wouldn’t be so hard to let some of them go. Let them fall to the ground, let them turn to bone, white in the sun. You can go back and touch them, touch the bones of your memories, to remember where you come from, but you do not have to carry them.
I should not have to carry them.
I want to rest now. So many years together, and you have never seen me, never thanked me for what I do for you. I’ve flapped my ears at you, I’ve thundered about the room trying to get your attention. But you talk pleasantly of the weather, of what you’re watching on TV tonight. You don’t look at me; you don’t talk about what lies between us.
And until you set me free or die, I will never find my own peace.