Rush by Endeah Huey

A girl. Face blessed with acne, skin tight as a perfectly ripe banana. Lips perked up to the
experienced, she rebels, at any and everything someone says to her. Because what she says,
does not goes. But she comforts herself to believe that it does. “The world is mines”,… if only it was,… the world would be simplified in an despicable way. Incarceration for people like me. Even you. Because, now you’ve belittled the world. And in follows, you have belittled yourself.

This girl, dreamed eight different dreams, moves eight different ways, and wondered
eight different possibilities. Each time, she moves, but is accompanied with her “irritation”.
That itch she absolutely cannot scratch. So then she pouts and pouts because she can’t move
without her “irritation”. But every once in a while, it goes away. Eager to take advantage of the opportunity, she crawls, then stumbles, then walks, then run and finally sprints. She feels relieved, an “away-from- home-remedy” for the itch she can’t scratch. She is invited into a milk and honey bath, a remedy for the itch she can’t scratch. Its soothing, relief, she believes this is where she is meant to be. She… indulges into the milk and honey and takes a death breath. After years of her “soothing” and revitalizing experience, she stands up and takes a look into the mirror.

She has four eyes, eight legs, with hair arousing from every pore in her body. Disgusted,
and ashamed… the itsy bitsy spider climbs up the water spout… and draws a web of despair and self-destruction.