The Rite of Process

You sat there, together yet all alone,

in the endless cold and dark —

waiting, for days, with bated breath,

to be rescued.

They came, promising an escape — a quick way out —

the ones in white coats made many promises,

but kept only a few.

Would you say you were rescued

if you are no longer who you used to be?

Or would you say you were elevated,

because that sounds more convincing?

They told you, when they came to save you,

that you’d be better off alone.

The journey ahead demanded individuality —

even if it meant tearing you into two,

before putting the entire picture together.

And so you agreed,

because you knew that there was only so much you could control,

especially once they began stripping you down

to see if you were fit to continue,

even if you were already in parts.

You didn’t say a word —

you just silently prayed

that you would still have enough of yourself left

when they arrogantly came to assemble you.

The white coats put you together

in a haphazard fashion —

brazen, annoyed, careless —

you weren’t perfect,

but you were suitable for their purpose.

The journey ahead demanded identity and purity.

Where you came from mattered

only in the context of who you were now.

You had started, together yet all alone,

a dozen of you,

in the endless cold and dark.

And after a sequence of events,

here you were, at the end of the road,

back with the dozen others,

hoping to be remembered

more than you waited to be rescued.

For what else was the point

of making you whole again,

if only to leave you

until you become a statistic mentioned in passing,

in the endless cold and dark.