By Erin Trampler Bell
The dust makes me sneeze.
I am less comfortable in jeans than I used to be.
I’m embarrassed by my allergy to horses.
The concept of conquest unsettles me.
My silver is too shiny.
My bandanas are all fake.
I began to feel scared for the clowns.
Sometimes I feel I am a clown in my daily life and why would I want to relive that?
I empathize with animals too much and it hurts.
Once a wild cow chased my car through a secret canyon and I see the same eyes in the corral.
I am too closely bound to the fates of horses.
I want to revere the sources of sustenance.
When the rope tightens I can’t breathe.
Would you want someone to tie a rope there to make you kick?
The next step is bullfights and I’ve been broken by the picadors.
My silver isn’t shiny enough.
Greasing the pig isn’t fair.
I would rather go to a powwow.
Every horse is a unicorn I can’t touch anymore.
I am torn by the ruthlessness of tradition.