I enter into this poem— a slaughterhouse in my body—
contending with the knives
that ruined my body with scars in duplicates.
A plague calls, & I respond with a gnash of Godlike,
each gnash etched deep into my heart,
all having the fret to forge my strength ahead.
I suspend my pains with imagination,
to create a craft:
work + lost + desire = self-renewal
I disown grief with a rebellious desire, to stay safe,
to prod my hands away from the search for waste.
knowing an ache that is stuck inside my soul isn't defeat.
Tomorrow, I would beg for rifling the devil's sting,
forging my vexed blood with serenity,
to hush the howling accent
of inner bruises locked in my bonecage.
I have grown to outlive the predators
that preyed upon my kindness,
& the erasure that held my porcelain heart hostage.
I consider ripping the charts of rioting cut
begging for visibility,
because such hurts deserve an antidote.
I have grown to trade grief for empathy
ramming into me as a Volkswagen.
Somewhere in my heart,
an orchestra plays my favourite hymns
& a gorgeous butterfly appears & carry me to a vast realm
where souls tango, on a platter of merriment.
In one event, I manifest in a waltz of a celestial body,
from the womb of a blue sky.
I uplift myself towards the mouth that owns me,
who approves my present.
My problems halt, & healing takes shape in the plot of my life.
May God have a photograph of this.