Written: 8/20/2025

Mot climbs in my window in the dead of night
to break the bloodline and use my family's
sick abuse to cook up curses.
And I know no better when I struggle
with this orange fire inside that I walk with
day and night;
that you walk with the same.
And because I feel incinerated I don't think
to look if you were ever visited by the same ancient demon.
I spilled onto our plate when the same
obtuse fire was imprinted in you.
So we fight and scream and whip each other
in flagellation on a canaanite temple's pillar
we call our apartment in the ghetto.
But once we realize that Jesus's love
isn't descended from hell
and we allow our tears to quell the lava inside
and repent and call out with our hands gripped
realizing our gazes were transfixed,
with inner frustrations and hate intermixed.
It leaves ( for now )
and we see the dust from the break of sunlight
in the twilight.
As she goes to sleep I sit up and think
"It's wonderful that just a mottle of God's grace
sutures what I assumed were
incurable wounds."