Can the dead, hear me?
Can they my screams from the seven heavens?
Up in the cloaked veils of God himself,
or are they sheltered from the suffering down here,
I wonder if they were ever real,
If I had just imagined these people,
My Ama, a golden vase,
That held a dozen children,
Watched her own vase crack,
whilst the flowers she held died,
I wonder whilst she helped me grow,
my Ama,
I wonder if she knew she was leaving,
Were my conversations with her a dream?
A fantasy I created to keep me at ease,
Or was she just like the rest,
Temporary, a boat to ride past by my coast,
Only to leave yet again,
Are tortured children like me going to heaven?
Or is hell a place that is eternal?
That the fight never stops, that the house never stops burning,
If we are patient and wait solemnly,
Will we have access to the pearly gates?
If we pray to him daily, shouldn’t I be at ease?
Am I a devil child, like they told me?
Covered up, voice quiet, soul killed, art stolen from me,
Am I going to hell for not believing that there is heaven under my mothers feet?
Am I damned?
Was my body not good enough,
Did I not serve my mother for 20 years?
Did I not pray to God for 18 years?
Even when nothing changed,
Was I sinner?
Did I not have every part of my skin set alight for her words to burn me?
To have my body taken from me, limb by limb,
My body was not mine,
To have food not served to me, my voice silenced, my heart not loved,
When my womb bled, and I screamed, I thought I was burning up my sins,
But what sins can I have burnt at 16?
Should children even be born into communities?
Who teach them to stay silent?
Who teach them to cover up the truth?
Should we trust Adults to make decisions for us?
Do they know when to speak up?
If we are children,
Why does it feel like I am picking up the pieces for my brothers?
My own brain,
Like a cloud, whimsical,
flimsy,
I am confused,
This is a tale,
My brothers sing to me,
everytime they call me,
Confusion ridden in their very blood,
Because their own blood,
Denied them of safety.
Ameen.