i seek the shadows that comfort me
from the shame of vulnerability.
i can’t feel the sorrow and the grief of loss
under the day’s brightness.

as if the light acts as a dam,
preventing the next great flood from god.
under hecate’s protection, i am cloaked,
hidden from others (and from my own eyes).

when i was young, my parents taught me
that emotions are not for boys.
emotions were like barbies -
and toying with either is an act of shame.

one time i was desperate and needed
the comfort that only parents can provide.
i cried in front of my mother, she stopped me and said,
“i’ll give you something to cry about.”

so i learned to hide under the blankets.
i let it all go - stifling the sobbing whimpers.
afraid to be caught, afraid to be punished,
afraid of another humiliating lecture.

i wrap my arms around my hollowness,
holding the sheets closeby.
alone, finding solace within.
fighting my battles on my own.

here in the darkness, i bathe in my own vulnerability.
gasping for hope in between sobs.
tonight - there will be a baptism.
tomorrow - i will be renewed.

see the water glisten
like jelly, it quivers
in custody of foreign lands.

see the water swallow,
restraining my body.
all my life,
i’ve floated in uncertainty;
but now i’m held,
in complacent inevitability.

see the water mirror –
the deserted moon,
shining brighter, mightier,
than earth’s –
immortal, god sent
glorious diamonds.

see the water baptize
like alcohol, it cleanses
the past, the mistakes, and the regrets.

this feeling of finiteness
in the past couple of days,
savouring the smallest details
grateful for every second.

the streets buzzing with tourists and outsiders
taking over our city with their suburban bravado.
i choose to remain in the coolness of my home.
away from society - a voluntary banishment.

with an aching void and a punishing responsibility,
a freedom not taken for granted, but neglected.

aimless and without passion.
hopeless and without ambition.
helpless and without provision.

falling from great heights with no hope of return,
i pray for a calling, a mission, or a path.

i sit there in my lifeless, cold, grey room,
the rain taps on my window religiously.
the mist of the newly brewed tea rises,
as the dull brown liquid stains the white porcelain cup.

i sit there thinking, dreaming.
thinking, dreaming of what could be.
thinking, dreaming of what will be.
i think and dream of suffering and of relief.
i think and dream of failures and of success.
i think and dream of monstrosity and of perfection.
i sit there thinking and dreaming.

the grey intensifies, overwhelms, and dominates,
every speck of grey aims to blind and to bind me.
the objects of my thoughts and dreams become reality.
monsters and angels seep out of the corner walls.

nothing is all i can do.
but sit.
thinking.
dreaming.
waiting to be devoured.

another workday -
ignore the catastrophe,
bury your conscience.

another number,
type away the foreboding,
count down the minutes.

another dollar,
think about the bottomline,
excess overflow.

another warning -
it is coming to an end.
when will we wake up?

she paints an image of herself –
all flaws gone, erased from reality:
blissful heaven and ecstasy are all that are left.
brushes away her transgressions,
her fears and regrets.
sadness overpowered by a layer of cyan.

she is happy at this moment,
and the stroke after that,
and the stroke after that – i hope.
she is her own goddess – creator of beauty –
maker of paradise –
mother of thin, crowded jet-black lines.

every tint of ink, a new creation;
a bridge to herself;
a mirror of herself.
she is the artist striving for perfection.
every hour she batters herself.
every hour she compares herself.

aiming for the stars and beyond,
but she only fools herself –
for she is perfection.