They sit around and plot. Their hands rough and demanding, their fingers pressed deep into my skin.
I do not complain.
Blood, grime and sweat created the patina of my skin, tattooing my soul with their shared pain and anguish. Their laughter my music, their happiness my shine, their sorrow reflected in the grooves and scars carved in to my very being.
Knives and wands rested carelessly on top of me, cutting and wounding me, but I do not complain. Laughter turns to sadness, tears falling softly on my face. My legs keep me upright, strong and unwavering in the storm of chaos and change.
I do not complain.
The warm meals set upon me never as heated as the hidden trysts that created new life upon my surface. Robes thrown asunder, lust and passion seeping into my very core as the cries of ecstasy fill the empty space.
As time passes my strength fades with the weight of their sins, with the memories of our shared lives. The splinters have begun to take contour, each one tearing from the fabric of me and I begin to ache. I ache for the sun on my face, for the wind in my hair, when I stood majestic and proud, providing comfort and shade.
Their voices are faded, muted, replaced by the chirping of birds, the sound of the wind blowing and the calm of the sun setting on a life lived and for that I cannot complain.