The Song,
That lays within me,
Grows tiresome,
The flames roar,
Yet I feel the ash over my flesh,
The cinders choke me,
My bones burnt,
Only apparition left.
They, my non-blood,
Believe me to be Mad,
And I wonder, within the chaos that has unravelled unto me,
How their hearts still remain riddled in prostitution?
Even when my life was sucked out of me,
Like a Ghoul eating at death,
How a black hole of sorrow plagued me,
And the life of terror began in front of them,
I often wonder,
How sick Women can be,
It seems,
Jealousy and Hassad* is a present they gift me,
Over and over,
and just like their own Blood,
They will continuously eat at Me,
Oceans away,
Even in my silence,
My privacy,
A stinging nettle they burn their own selves with,
A heinous crime,
Even when their own live double lives,
All actors,
The Others ,
Seem to want to swift things under rugs,
As if this was a game of Chess,
Princess moves,
Check – mate,
You win,
But you don’t,
I still remember everything,
They are always right,
I forgive,
But the memory is still riddled in my skin
My body does not forget
.