issue three / reverie
[unsaid] Hereditary
ghazal
Ma, my soul is exhausted. I wish I could tell you of my heavy heart,
in between my teeth, your rage sits a bleeding tongue,
your agony in my stomach, an insatiable hunger, and you often say,
I was your prayer answered by the heavens. Ma, heaven is a banished land,
a haven I could never reach. I am the ghost of a hangman lingering by the fences
of the graveyard. I watch my coffin being set down. So grant me a wish, Ma.
Just one wish. I tremble in fear of a monster I had become. Take that knife.
Aim for my heart. Let me die in your arms, Ma. My head is on your lap,
can you hum that lullaby? Eat me alive. Only you can love me in a hateful way.
Hide me in your bosom from these cruel norms. Spit me out then.
Only I can endure you tirelessly. Tell me what I should become? But please,
before that, let me be your child for the last time. Ma, they say, a house is a church
and you should know I had long lost my way. The devil had made me kneel at his
altar. Hallelujah! So bury me in our backyard. I wish to crawl back to you.
This time, I will be your flesh, your sins, your sorrow, your glory. You will hold this
bare thread tying us scaredly. This is how we will survive this war, Ma --
this war of ‘coming from’ till ‘becoming’
transcends humanness between a child and a mother
This time, I will try better. For us. We deserve our spring blossoms, Ma. We truly do.
in between my teeth, your rage sits a bleeding tongue,
your agony in my stomach, an insatiable hunger, and you often say,
I was your prayer answered by the heavens. Ma, heaven is a banished land,
a haven I could never reach. I am the ghost of a hangman lingering by the fences
of the graveyard. I watch my coffin being set down. So grant me a wish, Ma.
Just one wish. I tremble in fear of a monster I had become. Take that knife.
Aim for my heart. Let me die in your arms, Ma. My head is on your lap,
can you hum that lullaby? Eat me alive. Only you can love me in a hateful way.
Hide me in your bosom from these cruel norms. Spit me out then.
Only I can endure you tirelessly. Tell me what I should become? But please,
before that, let me be your child for the last time. Ma, they say, a house is a church
and you should know I had long lost my way. The devil had made me kneel at his
altar. Hallelujah! So bury me in our backyard. I wish to crawl back to you.
This time, I will be your flesh, your sins, your sorrow, your glory. You will hold this
bare thread tying us scaredly. This is how we will survive this war, Ma --
this war of ‘coming from’ till ‘becoming’
transcends humanness between a child and a mother
This time, I will try better. For us. We deserve our spring blossoms, Ma. We truly do.