War

I am like a beet

Buried deep in the comfort and solace of the earth.

The soil is like a womb, encompassing me in fertile love and safety.

The nutrients of Gaia sustain me and help me grow.

I become strong with the love and care of the earth. Watered by the sweet rains, Mama’s tears and milk nourishing my body. The sun permeating into my soul and encouraging me to flourish. 

Eventually, I begin to sprout. Big beautiful leaves push their way through the sough soil. Resilient and full, lush and green.

And then the farmer plucks me from the womb of the earth.

My time becomes limited. I have a shelf life and am at the mercy of the farmer and the consumer. 

Will they utilize my flesh and body? Feeding themselves with my nutrients, what I am forced to provide, dicing and trimming me into palpable perfection. Or will they forget about me and leave me to rot, decaying without purpose. The waste of perfect life and nutrients, organic matter concaving in on itself. Useless to the world, no purpose to fulfill. 

Either way, I am at the mercy of the farmer as soon as my roots are ripped from the fertile soil. I am no longer free to thrive and prosper. I must provide, be contained, serve a dutiful purpose to help sustain other people’s life.

Ripped from the womb.