Where I come from,
children are a milestone.
And so raising them is as easy
as carving your number
on a rock.
And if your rock
should show resistance
as you chisel at its face,
you simply sharpen your tools
and keep working.
Until your rock knows
that it is a rock.
Simply a marker
on someone else’s pilgrimage
to their own sentience,
in which they may
or may not realise
that they, too, were shaped
to deny their own humanity.
To be a rock.
Yet to, somehow,
simultaneously believe
that with enough endurance,
we might be hardened
into diamonds.
So, where I come from,
all our rocks are treasured
objects.
And things like choice, and like consent,
are just the concepts from our myths.
They’re just the things we tell
to children,
as we mould them for ourselves,
because we think them far too precious
for the truth.
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