My mother bleeds upon my skin,
Brings daggers and hunts out the light in me,
My chest and my face take the hits,
Deep bruises, purple, brown and blue,
An art piece on bone,
But now it doesnt hurt,
Its purely aesthetic,
Before my eyes would run a tap until dry,
But now I stay steady,
Rooted, like an Oak Tree,
Whilst she attempts to kill me again like she did as a child,
Her Ritual
Today,
After years of silence,
She bled upon chisel and began to slice into my flesh,
Without any permission,
She stepped onto my ground and began an Earthquake,
No questions were asked of how daughter had been, my safety, my health, me,
Instead assault upon assault on my being were launched like bow and arrow,
Whore, Slut, Kanjari, Prostitute, Harami, were repeated, like a spell,
“if your dad was alive what would he say?”
A common song run off tongue,
A bone to pick at,
As if I was a Dog,
Following her tricks,
I wore my armour like a Knight,
I watched, whilst startled,
Bewildered,
For a moment my eyes welled up,
As I watched the Woman who was supposed to be my Mother
Get lost in her hell and charge at me,
I repeated I didn’t care anymore ,
Today,
Amongst my startled self,
I grinned behind almost wet eyes,
Realising my skin has trained for this,
I have read this page over and over,
The jigsaw puzzles finally fit,
I did not have to try ,
I am Free,
She will never change,
And that is okay,
You cannot force someone to love you,
Even if it’s your own Mother,