The Anquish of an Instrument

No. I'm not allowing it. I'm not going to allow myself to become flattened. I'm not going to permit you from smearing me into the idle background of your painting.

Paint the world however you want, just don't use me as the brush.

Don't smudge my existence into a tiny blotch. Into a quiet bystander. Into the compliant little man.

You have Howitzers. I have grocery bags. I'm expected to continue walking. You're expected to continue bludgeoning. Through this process, we're both instruments. Cogs. Tools creating other tools. You and I, we're just part of an endless pedigree of toolmaking that will undoubtedly go on forever.

You're the hammer.

I'm the nail.

But not any more. I'm bent. I'm crooked. I'm fucking tarnished to shit and no matter how hard you hit, you'll never supplant me. Not so long as I take these breaths and stand this ground, I won't be a part of your ugly construction.

Yeah, I know, I'm done for.
I'm going to become an itch on your side that will barely even affect you. That will be quelled with one quick scratch of the skin.

But maybe, just maybe, somewhere out there in the sea of docile faces, there will be someone who'll see me. Who'll remember me. Who'll spread the irritation so that the next thing you know, you're covered in a vile rash of contempt.