Broke in horse Broken horse
When I was a kid we had a red horse we named Red Rover. He lived in the pasture back behind our house. Someday, was always my stepdad’s plan, to break him. And that was how we talked about Red. He’s not broken. Not broke in. We weren’t supposed to be alone with Red. We weren’t supposed to run through his pasture. We weren’t supposed to feed him unsupervised. Of course as children with quite a bit of independence, my brother and I did all of these things. Red scared us, but that was the thrill. The adrenaline rush that came from avoiding those hooves, those teeth, that kick. Look at us, facing off with a wild animal. It also made us a little sad I think, that although he was allowed to be wild, his wildness was also his doom. He was alone, lonely, in the pasture deprived of regular human contact and interaction. But my stepdad never did break Red. He was sold off to someone with something. As the days go by, I feel broken. Broke in. I’m weary and am losing my will to keep pushing back. I’ve stopped threatening everything that comes near. I present myself, palms open, eyes down, ready for whatever. Whatever is next. I am done resisting.