Estranged from home,
A house of blood, rotting with my remains,
Knitted in marriage, and the birth of children that were never meant to be born,
Children birthed into arms of the wrong mothers,
in the arms of wrong bodies,
Was it our mothers that chose this?
Or did culture override religion once again?
We blame the men, yet it seems the women are the gatekeepers of the pain,
Non believers
babies as adornments,
something to make the family whole again?
what tore a hole into home? What made the house not home?
A hole filled with children, to fill a void, a black hole of anguish,
to give relief to the depression that has arose,
children displayed at tables, as centre pieces,
Passed around as decoration,
funny,, they are so gentle with us,
Until we grow up, and we are dropped,
Shattered into a thousand pieces, like china plates,
but no one turns to gold to fix the broken gourds that we are,
We are tended to with soft gentle hands as babies,
Later these hands lead the very skin to be littered in volcanoes,
red, brown, black craters,
everyone turns a blind eye,
Glass shards can be found in every tear drop,
tear ducts begging to remain closed,
A broken eye would prevent the gushing,
but to gush as a child, would be the only way of releasing,
No child has the tools to manage such a grief,
Instead children look to others, hands begging for help,
But returned empty handed each time,
I feel estranged from my countries,
all wrong in every language,
an accent in every tongue,
in every way my mouth morphs its words,
my colour too rich,
does not fit the climate of these people,
my colour too light, my skin not thick enough,
internally like a warrior,
but skin not filled with fat, neither alcohol,
My skin dissolves at the sight of pain,
Pain is diluted with my blood,
My body a vehicle for this emptiness,
we are the generation of lost children,
no house to fit in,
no place to call home,
Nothing that binds us,
only confusion lies,
abandoned at shore,
only finding peace within green,
finding peace from the sun,
find peace in what is familiar,
The world calls us nomads,
Calls us refugees,
I have no home,
neither a house,
nor body,
to host such a spirit,
That I can call my own.