chaiNboli

/Blessed are those who dead cursed are us, who exist / This summer  I turned twenty _three. A natural thing, a normal phase. But tell me, which is the scariest part: To exist with a heart  beyond mending, or  being broken in  a young tender age? Life, a giant snail with monstrous pangs, the wicked wind stealing dandelions. I see the world in black and white: a cruel place where  happiness an alien, an occasional visitor. It smells of  cigarette butts soaked  in the first rain,  of white chrysanthemums in a child's grave. I dream  of myself  occasionaly and see  a bloated corpse, ugly, light as feather, swimming without trying, hands free_ a mermaid in contact  with the land. I am  a goldfish  moving in a glass bowl: do you calm it freedom? "Have hope, trust in god" I hear_ rubbish!  How can I believe in a god that would deny me  life and death? Still, god, if you are looking  at me with your  milli...

 My father  calls me a slut S_L_U_T, every letter rolling  in his tongue with ease that surprises me. S_L_U_T every letter tattooed on  my brown skin in luminous red. My vagina protests, my chest pains  but I stand, calm as Madonna, my face a starched kerchief, my emotions the shell of  a dead snail in the garden. He curses,  fuming  enough to make my  tongue toll into a useless cloth. How can I tell him  that am not the child  he prayed for? the child he  once  took pride in? How can I say him  nothing has changed and am still in search of a hand  to hold, a chest to cry? Will he listen? will I speak?  Am not his child anymore, afraid of dark . But a loser  a broken heart a stranger  he will never love.