Sever the ties,
Pour the tears of altar,
Watch the bond burn into a thousand flickering candles,
The candles flame extinguished into the surroundings,
A separation,
of truth and lie,
However, its never been that easy,
Words performing and sealing theories, while dancing on paper,
Ballet on parchment, its beauty loosening the pain when reading,
Or deepens the light footsteps pressed on ink,
They are just words floating like swans in their elegance,
But the emotions are felt as if the flames of severing the ties are embodied onto skin,
Like tattoo mapped the body, from the air in which it touched,
I took turns which nobody else took,
Drove on roads where no person of colour dare takes,
Have been driving a rollercoaster blind,
Refuse to forget where I come from,
But this dancing is tiresome,
Gruseome it is, digging into the dirt that killed me,
To pull out the weeds, to turnover dead soil,
To make fertile again,
Watching the remains of my roots be pulled out,
There was never any nutrition in the ground,
But why can I not forget?
Where does the yearning come from?
Its as if I never learnt,
Does the abusee always love their abusers?
Am I in a sick fantasy,
or am I human?
Is all I want love?
a home, in which there is no malice,
Where I can be a child with no expectation,
Will they write about me?
I wonder what crypts in my chest have been sworn closed out of protection,
Yet I bleed so violently, in blue, red and purple,
I love and live so ferociously, why?
A romantic life,
The ink of my pain, an ocean in summer evening,
Luis tells me to stop,
I try but cannot,
I try and try but cannot,
I let the body burn out till there are no tears left,
Extinguish the expectation Ameera,
I laugh it out, I dance until my feet are bruised,
I try and I succeed,
I do not dwell, just the grief haunts me,
It creeps up in my floorboards,
and overthrows my heart,
as if forgotten for too long,
A reminder of the love I had,
then it returns,
I reach out my hand,
As I have always done,
Only to be burnt over and over,
Hope is a killer,
The whale inside of me,
The overseer of my strength, groans in its song,
My moans are not in pleasure,
Deep in the night you can hear the weeping of a child,
or a grown woman,
What is frightening is that I am happy,
There are no flowers in winter,
But the lushious brown and green is noticeable all year around,
I do not focus on what that which killed me,
I forgave it and I forgave myself,
Yet,
This cycle of grief scurries in and out of my mouth like ants
As if an ant hill formed inside of my head.