Like dew to a mite,
the truth of the world is absorbed
through tiny sips
wandering on the leaf to other pools of knowledge.
Maybe it was this knowledge that kept it full,
maybe it was mine that was sorely lacking.
The mite in me was always given too much to drink,
from a young age, I found myself
sipping on bits of nectar
and strong drops of medical-grade alcohol
trying to distract myself from the waking nightmare
of my mentally deranged mite mother.
They told me the mite in me was special
but I never learned to properly communicate with it
I never taught it that what I did mattered
I never heard that I was good or just
for sipping the pools or knowledge I did.
My mite was nothing to them
a few nights ago.
They made up their mind,
but my mite was a late bloomer.
They never saw it bursting into
colourful shell and elegant wing.
Now that my mite is soaring on in the sun,
no longer burdened about the cold darkness that surrounds it,
they manifest their care-like tendrils.
How smart my mite is,
How long we have waited to see it rear it’s beautiful horn-ed head,
quoted in immaculate essays.
My mite colleagues will be so proud of me,
until my mite nature reveals itself,
as warm blood spilt on an unwilling floor.
How they would love to see my marvellous talent wasted.
Hey! I’m Jasper. I’m an aspiring editor that writes on the side. Currently I’m in high school and have yet to publish, but I have my goals set high.