Aids Doesn't Kill. Your Attitude Kills.
By Nikhil Parekh
Compassionately shaking hands with them; wont in anyway enshroud every
ingredient of your blood with the most unforgivably cancerous of disease;
wont in anyway annihilate you forever and ever and ever from the trajectory
of this fathomless Universe,
Profusely intermingling your shadow with theirs; wont in anyway diminish you
beyond the threshold of disparagingly dolorous oblivion; wont in anyway
obfuscate your integrity with the clouds of tawdry salaciousness,
Tirelessly talking with them; wont in anyway make you the most delinquently
inferior organism on this boundless earth; wont in anyway char your
inimitably distinctive identity,
Amiably kissing them on their rubicund lips; wont in anyway evaporate every
ounce of immunity from your body; wont in anyway transform you into the most
treacherously cursed entity alive,
Uninhibitedly fondling their silken hair; wont in anyway jinx you with even
the most infinitesimal parasite on this limitless earth; wont in anyway
trounce you to your dolorously fetid grave,
Mischievously nibbling at their innocuous ears; wont in anyway numb each of
your senses to even the tiniest trace of sound; wont in anyway engulf each
brilliant day of yours with hopelessly asphyxiating blackness,
Jubilantly adventuring with them in the inscrutable forests; wont in anyway
sap you of untamed powerhouse of effulgent energy; wont in anyway make you
an impotent pinch of mud fretting for an infinite lifetimes,
Profoundly staring into the whites of their impeccable eyes; wont in anyway
blind you forever from every conceivable iota of pleasure and panoramic
light; wont in anyway pulverize you into inanely impoverished nothingness,
Eclectically sketching their harmlessly nimble silhouette; wont in anyway
vengefully deteriorate you into a pool of insipid nothingness; wont in
anyway render you as the most ignominiously slandered artist alive,
Holistically eating with them in the same bowl; wont in anyway metamorphose
you into an ocean of endlessly lambasting tears; wont in anyway inundate the
walls of your stomach with venomously aggrieved poison rather than the
celestial fruits of the Creator Divine,
Unflinchingly entwining your fingers into theirs; wont in anyway
horrendously deplete you of every ounce of your strength; wont in anyway
impede you from symbiotically coalescing with the rest of eternally
fructifying living kind,
Sleeping impregnably close to them to shelter them at night; wont in anyway
grant you a place in the most vindictively unsparing of hell; wont in anyway
prematurely bury you a countless feet beneath your veritable grave,
Flirtatiously tickling their nubile skin; wont in anyway hang you upside
down in the most brilliantly blazing of Sunlight; wont in anyway seal every
other synergistically untainted option for you in the chapter of resplendent
life,
Wholeheartedly embracing them as one of your own kin; wont in anyway
perpetuate in you the germs of the most ominously tyrannical of disease;
wont in anyway render you satanically crippled for the remainder of your
life,
Affably conserving each droplet of their golden sweat in your palms; wont in
anyway erase the spell binding destiny lines of your existence; wont in
anyway proclaim you as a preposterously shameful misfit for the fabric of
society,
Altruistically applying the balm of humanity on their inexplicable wounds;
wont in anyway assassinate every bit of harmonious knowledge that you had so
wonderfully assimilated since the first cry of birth; wont in anyway torment
you even after you died,
Uninhibitedly drinking water from their unfinished glass; wont in anyway
transform every ingredient of your Omnipotent blood into unbearably
vindictive venom; wont in anyway truculently slain the royal seeds of
virility from your endowed life,
Unceasingly enlightening them with the magical artistry in your persona;
wont in anyway endanger even the most diminutive shade of existence on the
perennial planet; wont in anyway transform you into a sinful eunuch wailing
the last words of your life,
Unassailably blending every breath of yours with theirs; wont in anyway
defeat you the slightest in any philanthropic quest of your blessed life;
wont in anyway abruptly snap the fangs of your miraculously proliferating
existence,
Immortally bonding every beat of your heart with theirs; wont in anyway make
you the most abhorred criminal of this globe; wont in anyway metamorphose
every definition of true love into sadistically betraying hatred,
Paradoxically; whereas doing all the above things with them wont in anyway
harm you the tiniest; but their not receiving the same from you would
definitely make them die the most ghastliest of death; a death which would
not be a result of their suffering from HIV/AIDS, but an extinction which
would be the most horrifically gruesome; a death which would be the most
perpetually criminal; caused due to opprobrious disdain and neglect by you;
you and only you; who was none other than their uncaring fellow human
kind...
UNTITILED
If I could tell HIV how I feel
I would tell it that it destroys lives.
Breaking apart families.
Robbing lives that aren't theirs.
Having people live with struggle, pain
sickness, sorrow and nothing else left in their mind.
If I could tell HIV how I feel
I would tell it to go away.
Never return.
I would tell it that it
makes people blind with their tears
and deaf with their screaming
If I could tell HIV how I feel
then it would listen,
bringing back lives that were killed,
families that were torn apart,
and homes that were sweet.
I know just because you have HIV
doesn't mean it's the end of the
world, but in return you can
never stop thinking about it.
Eileen Rosado, age 15
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