I am a Rug. Please, step on me.

Today was not such an unusual day.
A crowd of friends and strangers stands and looks me over.
With a most kind and generous tone they tell me,
“Lay down like a rug so that when we walk over you, our feet won’t get dirty.”
Ever willingly I nod my head, for I truly believe I’ll make the others happy, if I were their rug.
Immediately, I drop to my knees and feel the sting as the dust creeps into my wounds.
With eyelids shut, I lay down my body on the harsh, dirt floor.
Bruised legs spread wide, scabbed arms stretch above my head.
Mouth pressed to the ground, my lungs inhale the horror of dirt’s residue.
The dirt still persistently crawls into the trenches of open skin.
“They are worth this, right? Of course, such pretty people deserve a rug to protect their clean feet.”
My thoughts played over and over again.
With a dirtied smile to the ground and a voice filled with glee I say, “Please, step on me.”
One by one they walk over me.
Some are heavy, some not so bad. Some leave scars and some plant thorns.
Some ignore my service, some even care to brush me off after they’ve walked all over.
With each passenger, I warmly welcome their feet to travel across me.
Sometimes there are few travelers, sometimes there are mobs that leave me in pools of red.
No matter the foot’s weight, shape, or size, I am most confident they are delighted to travel abroad.
Today was not such an unusual day.
With eyes red and lips of pocketed soars, I wave to the friends and strangers.
Then thank them for traveling with Rug Airlines, once more.