Defiance

When standing up straight is already a daily battle, there are days when things come down on you one after another after another and you find yourself crushed flat, unable to move further and breathing dust if you’re breathing at all. No one sings under these stones.

When Giles Corey stood accused of witchcraft, they sentenced him to death by crushing, or life if he would lie for it. He would not. “More weight,” was all he said. “More weight,” until he said nothing at all.

Under any stones, there are choices. Other endings.

Read. Read other people’s thoughts about thoughts. Turn your music up. Write. Pull words out of your cracking heart. Write them in blood but tell what is happening to you. Weep. Make flowers out of paper. Make anything. Draw. Draw Icarus in flames. Draw flowers on your arms. They may hurt you—refuse to do their work for them. Refuse. Fight back. Speak. Demand more weight. “Is this the best you can do?” 

You are no better than your flaws, no stronger than your weakness, but you were still standing before this night fell. You do not have to be patient. Wait it out? No. No and no and no again; they will not take you silent.