The Monologue of My Pinky Toe

So here you are. 

I don't know why people get pleasure in listening to stories of tragedy. There are so many other parts of your body that have beautiful and wholesome stories to tell.

For instance, remember the day when your lovely eyes drove a guy crazy and he fell in love with you?

Or the day when he proposed you and your chubby cheeks turned pink out of sheer joy?

Why don't you want to hear all this?

Why do you want to know my painful story?

You sick, sadistic creature.

HERE ARE THE REASONS WHY I SUCK

1. I am the tiniest finger of your body, and your most neglected appendage. 

2. My nail is so small and insignificant that it would make no difference whether or not you apply that sexy red nail paint of yours on me.

3. I'm literally so useless and pointless that my only job is to just be there so that your toe count is the same as your finger count.

Basically, I'm the most harmless thing God has given you.

Tell me then, my dear owner, what have I done to deserve this?

WHY THE EVERLOVING FUCK do I keep getting banged on every single goddamn piece of furniture every time you walk past it?!

I have hit my head on that rusty cupboard filled with all your smelly socks. 

I have bumped on the edge of the wooden chair that is always protruding four inches out of its expected position.

I have been FUCKING COMPRESSED to half my already midget size the day you literally ran into that table sitting in the drawing room.

Why should it be me all the time?

I’m here to confess.

The pain of stubbing your toe comes in five stages of grief.

The funny thing is, all these stages are in the reverse order.

1. Acceptance

Here I am, swingin' on the floor with my four toe-buddies! Life is beautiful, life is great! Tring-a-ling, Tring-a-ling! Everything is so happy! Yayyy!

Wait, am I seeing what I'm seeing? Is that the bed? Am I supposed to bang on the edge of the bed? Again?

BAAAAAAAAAANG

Sigh.

You know what, it's okay. I anyway don't serve any purpose in life. All my other friends are taller and stronger than I am. They proudly pose for shutterbugs flaunting their dusky, seductive nail paints while I hide underneath the strap of your shiny green chappal, because my social anxiety doesn't allow me to stand out among the rest of my friends. I'm not even half as beautiful as they are.

But it's okay.

It is who I am. And the fact that I am the toe you have chosen to bang on the edge of your bed makes me feel special. This is my identity. This is what I will be known for.

The toe that bangs.

And I'm happy, because I'm different.

2. Depression

“This is what I will be known for.

The toe that bangs.”

What in the world was I thinking when I said I'm happy? In what messed-up universe does getting tortured make you feel happy? 

Do I have a fetish for self-harm?

Does that make me a masochist?

Or am I just plain sad?

Am I so deep down into the abyss of self-deprecation and loneliness that absolutely anything will make me feel happy, even if it is hitting my head with wood?

3. Bargaining

I know the reason behind my misery. 

I have banged so many times in my life, it’s almost a joke.

A “That’s what she said” joke.

What if there was a way I could have stopped it? What if you, by God’s grace, had recalled all those past memories of excruciating agony of holding your foot and screaming in pain? 

What if all those memories made you move slightly away from the bed because you’re afraid of hurting me again?

I know you’re afraid. 

I know you don’t wanna hurt the most innocent part of your body.

I know you don’t wanna squeeze your eyes and slap your forehead because you were hurt by a heartless, lifeless piece of wood.

If only you had remembered what an ABSOLUTE NIGHTMARE it was the last time I collided with your furniture, THIS. WOULDN’T. HAVE. HAPPENNED.

Ughhhhhhhhh

4. Anger

WHY DID YOU NOT REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED LAST TIME?!

WHY DID YOU NOT PULL AWAY FROM THE DAMN BED?!

WHAT SANE PERSON THINKS OF BANGING HER TOE FOR THE EIGHT THOUSAND FOUR HUNDRED AND SEVENTY NINTH TIME IN HER LIFE?!

HOW PSYCHOTIC CAN YOU BE TO KILL ME AGAIN, AND AGAIN, AND AGAIN?!

Look at me! Look at me down here! LOOK. AT. ME. !!!

Look how red I am with hatred. My skin is burning with contempt. This is all because of you, and you alone. 

I hate you, and I wish you cry in agony for the rest of your days.

Burn in hell, bitch.

5. Denial

Was I a bit too much? I was a bit too much, wasn’t I? 

I shouldn’t have been so hard on you. After all, you own me. I have no right to be so angry at someone who I owe my life to. 

I am the most innocent of all your fingers. I am supposed to be the timid one. 

Then why would you even think of hitting me with your bed? It makes no sense at all.

It makes no sense. At all.

No, you didn’t do it on purpose. You cannot do it. 

You can never hit me like that.

I need to stop puffing up. This is no way to treat you. 

Just look at you, sobbing and wailing all over the place.

I’ve treated you like shit. 

And I must stop.

***

And that, my dear owner, is why the pain of stubbing your pinky toe goes away even before you realise it.

Ps. This is a sequel to my poem "Elbowlepsy."

Credits to my friend Sankalpa for suggesting that I write something on this topic.