I sat and rhythmically squeezed a smiling, yellow rubber-ball and watched my blood, as dark as shiraz, inflate the flat canvas of a plastic bag.
I was at the Kilasch hospital in Godrej, India on a field trip to study sustainable practices in a small village. We were given a tour of the hospital which was designed with sustainability in mind. When we arrived at the lobotomy lab, our tour guide, Pranav, told us that the hospital was dangerously low on blood donations.
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Artist formally known as self
Tattooing emotions of his former self
Carving colors onto his skin just to be stuck with them
Tracing deep between lines with stencils to see how much in depth within himself he can get.
My birth was your love letter to life.
I haven’t been able to fully read the language of your DNA
So I often times find myself crossing your T’s your and dotting your eyes with my own tears pregnant with your guilt and
Finishing sentences that you left as fragments for me to figure out and complete on my own.
And Sometimes I want to write back to you and say, “I miss you and I need you.”
I was having a beer with a few coworkers after work one evening and one of them said, “You were born to teach.” I took the complement in stride, but my nonchalant footsteps were halted by an e-mail I received that made me say to myself in a very humble voice, “Anthony, maybe you were born to teach.” I had to look deeper into the statement.