The land that hates us

This is a guide to living on the land that hates us:

Remember, we are stuck in a cruel inbetween- our punishment for the malice of our ancestors:

We cannot stay her, and we have nowhere else to go. So we stay and we crumble, cell by cell.

This is how we live on the land that wants us gone. We plant in the soil that makes us sick- we have poisoned it ourselves.

The ground despises us. We destroy it. The water is tortured. The wind is ashamed of us.

The land will not forget the great tragedies. It is not like the herd that was caught in a landslide. It is not like the nice that drown when the plains flood. It is a twisted grief- the land is consumed by long years of wretched death.

I go to the forest, I ask for forgiveness. I give my gratitude to the trees that reject me. Their roots lift me from the ground, and they push me away.

I tell the river that I love her- I run my hands in the water, and she coils her tendrils around my DNA- gripping the edges of my telomeres- stretching and distorting them.

I live on the land that makes me sick. I ask the land to forgive me. I give my tears to the ground, and it’s bitterness grows up into my body- suffocating me in fatigue- stifling me with panic- whispering, we over and over:

Get out, we don’t want you here, get out.

I live on land that is angry. We are trapped and it cannot push me out like the rotting splinter so it eats me from within.

The invaders wither. Our stomachs hurt. Our heads pound. Our nerves turn to fire and ice. The land will have its revenge.