w h a t ' s t h e u s e o f l i v i n g w h e n yo u a i n' t re a l l y l i v i n g
w h a t ' s t h e u s e o f l i v i n g w h e n y o u a i n' t real
w h a t 's t h e u s e of l i v i n g w h en y o u a i n' t
w h a t ' s th e u s e o f l i v ing
w h a t' s t h e u se
w ha t
    ha


r e a ll y li v i n g
|r e a l l i v i n g|
>>a l i Ve<<
        *i*
          !

i am a never-ending wound
marred skin above
blemished bones

i am an artifact of defeat
decayed, crumbling
buried, gone

i am a failed experiment
defective dream and
unkept promise

i am a burden child
unable to lift the
fears and hopes of
tired, broken people

i am a suicide
23 years in the making

i am always running from the
heartbreak of my mother
i feel the violence of
crumbling households as it
shatters against my skin
i hear the roaring of her silence
as it scolds me for my temper
while hers burns like a furnace that
singes my bones

my mother's self-hate is
so deep it resents
the reflection it
finds in her daughter
unfortunate to learn
the very vices she
abhors within herself have
painted themselves on
her frail and young ones

i have learned my
worthlessness from my father
who himself thinks
nothing sacred of his body and blood
who belittles his wounds yet
is vindicated by their presence
as if he deserves his pain

my mother holds her anguish
as ransom to my neck, she
tells me i must rescue
her sorrows for the
price of my strength, that
i must purchase her torment
at the altar of my youth

i have been made to
carry the weight of an
old world, whose
screams and silences
burn as knives in my back,
whose injustices become my
inward injuries

but is it fair to ask children to
mother their mothers, to
father their fathers,
to be all the things they
couldn't be: a good parent
but is it fair to ask questions when
the world was already unfair to them?

life is a violent place.

that the world is crumbling
like the dust of my bones that
glides through the wind, sinks,
and settles into dirt
it scars my insides

a swallowed devastation
that defaces the walls of
this temple
curse the church that
chained you
break the arms that
maimed you

make love to the bruises and
kiss every trauma
caress the chasms of your wrist
split open from the
the sharp edges of your sadness



but it only grows.

I wish someone would
ask me if
i am ok because
i don't have the strength
to ask for myself

i wish someone would
take my hands and
squeeze them because
they shake when
i am afraid

i wish someone would
dare to see behind
my trembling walls because
even if you cared
i would refuse it

like blood in the mouth or
seawater in the throat, i
feel a caustic wrongness, a
constant creaking at the
hinges of the soul, an
invasion of my depths that
feel the scraping of their flesh from
greedy words and arms

an unrelenting bitterness
on the tip of my tongue
pieces of glass line my gum and
i bite down to taste the
wounded grin

rotten as old bones
i hide behind a cloak and
feed the dust

family is such a
strange word when
you are a constant foreigner
regardless of the
sameness of your blood