As his eyes bled the pain from out his ribs, cracked by my words harsher than the wind biting his wet cheeks, I smiled at the image of my face reflected in his tears.

As he walked away, his feet scraped the gutter as the knife still in between his bones, left to rest until his mother's warmth has melted the steel, her spirit embosomed it with millions of breaths reviving his flesh.

I watched him go, my body shivering as my mouth preparing chants of scorns meant to burn every broken heart passing by my wicked tongue Glowing, glowing as the God it believed it had become.

In bed, I stuck the knife into my own soul, my body trembling at the scent of my blood drained before my eyes
Sobbing, sobbing at the sight of my ribs never healing in the absence of my mother's arms.

I yelled to the roof staring back in silence, clanging out the pain stuffed in the son of my sorrow,
the son,
my throat,
exhaling every raging letter ever thrown in my face by fellow men,
by friends,
by a world,
savaging my soul before I had time to realize it was mine.

Why, I ask the shadow laughing from the floor,
why are we raised to believe that words like knives will save our minds while wonders and beautiful nights will destroy our lives? That only hard skin and harder tongues can survive in the concrete sky, kindness only leading to an early grave where no one will wish you farewell for your heavenly stay.

The shadow laughed.
The roof kept quiet.
I left the knife where it belonged, shoved through bones into a broken heart,
hoping it's tears made up for his lost blood. The stone will remain in of the son of my sorrow until my tongue's wickedness turns to dust in the beautiful night.

I will keep crying, until the mouth reflected in my tears turns into a smile.
I will keep silent, until I learn how to pronounce kindness.