I hear the language of the dead in my body,
In my head, their hands lost their matter,
The texture of their dancing thoughts
Seek electrification through mine,
Through interaction, through connection,
And I used to crop them, deracinate them like
Pest weeds, but my voice consists of the spices
Of theirs, the cacophony that I am.
I looked at you and thought about ways to escape you.
I didn’t know that you lived in my body as well.
I listened to your screams and cries and gave you life
Whilst planning my resignation, my coming-of-age
In my childhood, running far away from you,
The things you jolted in my head, in my body,
I wanted to shed the calluses of your skin,
I wanted to rid myself of you and your language
That messed with my own.
You begged for love and acceptance and compassion
At my door (I put all my powers in my key)
And I shut you out, the wailing, the apologies
Too well-known, too premeditated, too well-formed,
You abused them, dried them out, your hands on my head,
A curse on my scalp, your words in my ear,
And I thought I have to get out of here.
I left you behind. I tried. I failed and succeeded.
I approached you, us, from very different angles
And discovered you in my everyday steps,
In moments caught off-guard,
In my expression, my breaths, my gestures,
There, you, us, do I exist at all,
Or am I a reproduction, of you, of them all,
Tracing themselves back into existence, into life,
Who is the leech, who is sucking blood,
Who draws my body in, who fights in whose arena,
Am I a construct, contaminated, boisterous with your moods
That ceased to die when fires tore bones apart,
And I, with all my forces, made my way into this world
And you thought you could try anew
And I fought and fought, blindly, claiming that
I am my own creation.
Croque-Melpomene 