The person of authority had been called to rule.
Not an accomplishment, but a simple succession.
Reliving old patterns, unlearning: a better option.
The ravager cursing his origins, duplicating them.
Usurper, you’ve made yourself sick.
The love you have in your body, where is it held captive?
Love is a word your father put in his fist and belt.
Love is a lie that landed on your face.
This love is the rattlesnake around their necks.
So much love she had for you, even though you made her cry so much.
Her love for you made her hate herself.
Is that how your lovesong goes?
The tune the end of breath?
A fight to survive?
Rising from everyday ruins?
How did they end up here?
You made her grey, keeping her close, her head in your pockets.
You wanted to take everything from her.
And she enslaved herself for years.
How did she look to you on her knees?
Did you see her smile?
You thunderstorm eating her alive so you can survive.
You never worked on yourself instead you were sucking them dry.
Death a constant threat and guilt to paralyse.
The potion of love is hard to swallow.
Destroyer of the womb.
Recharging from the tears, solace in terror.
Hurdles, hurdles, a one-legged child.
How dare you spread your love?
Their compassion kept you on the cross.
But you were never carrying it yourself.
Was it not an invisible thing transmitted?
You pretentious martyr, projecting yourself into the worst scenarios.
Making them mourn, saving you, keeping you alive.
Your love is a punishment.
Why couldn’t you break the chain?
Why did you look at them, see yourself and despise them?
Narrator of lies, their lives.
You reopen your own wounds to showcase them. Revictimisation.
Your children the healers.
Your children anchorless.
Your children empty palaces.
Your children, the Moirai.