Her mother was on the floor again.
Collapsing like an ancient building that gave in to the hundredth storm that hit it.
Breaking like her grandmother’s favorite china did when daddy came home with emptiness in his eyes, alcohol in his veins, and rage ruling his tongue.
Her mother was crying again.
Her pain was loud tonight.
Her pain echoed through the narrow streets of their neighborhood.
Her pain screamed from a thousand amplifiers.
Reverberating in every corner of the universe.
She was seven.
Not every wise. Not designed to understand separation.
Her heart was kind.
The kind of kind that shares a favourite cookie with the worst enemy.
She sat next to her mother and whimpered.
Sorrow oscillated from mother to child.
Child to mother.
Some children break before they blossom.
A fleet of missed opportunities
Raging in their hunger for revenge
Seek shelter in my bones
From the unexpected torrent of regret I’m feeding them
This is a game
My role here is to fail miserably
To concede to this fiery fleet
Accept my defeat
Without offering explanations
Tend to dull the satisfaction of revenge
Put a lid
On the amount of appropriate violence
“We don’t want that
We don’t want to stop”
Thread of life,
One hundred seconds to live
The fleet grins
At corpses of their unborn kin
Lying exposed under my skin
A droplet of tragedy has been sucked out from this world
You will be missed.
the art of knitting words that dont break under the pressure of being forgotten
to wound hearts with poetry,
to dance to the rhythm of blank verses,
to unbound texts of foreign languages and gaze at them for hours on end
Not really understanding but gloating over the unsung words earnestly
to break souls like I break myself
the speech of the pretenders who have tattooed masks onto their tongues
to mend their shattered souls that cry for identity, turning to slime just to fit into every mold of human desire
to tear apart every construct of this universe
Too many stars have exploded already
to cure this world
and I’ll teach you
sparkly bulbs on rooftops,
snowmen bleeding from carrot noses,
trees weighed down by carefully hidden Christmas presents,
stars donning giant costumes and waiting to be discovered,
scent of freshly baked cakes,
a starlit evening,
slow knocks on wooden doors,
joyous gathering of crumbling souls,
seeking solace in wine bottles,
snatching mistletoe berries,
smashing them under nimble feet,
five thousand steps to salvation,
i take one.