YOU WANTED CONFESSIONS, HERE YOU GO

 There is August in my throat and rain in my hands

like the breath of a dead mother we all wish to bottle up and keep.

I miss playing in the garden of innocence while Rip van winkle used to braid my hair and the time my guns didn't used to bleed while telling his name. 

My eyes have the emptiness if a graveyard and I was them three times a day to keep them shining and clean, even though no one comes to light candles with a whispered prayer.

Do you know if I get a chance I will rob it's life from a butterfly and hide mine in the bitter memores, listening to the soft song of coffin touching the earth? 

You can fold me into a piece of cloth and dip me into lavender shampoo before you clean your kitchen sink with me, because then the tears will be recycled.

Plath understood all the hues of sadness, even the golden brown of it and that is why she decided to colour herself like a toasted bread.

I read books of men on love because the women don't know the alphabets to write about loss since their fingers are trimmed into spoon holders. 

I wake up to the same sun as yours but am a sun burned blackberry while you are a sun kissed peach.

The fall of Icarus is not same as the fall of Macbeth, just like the love of me is not same as the love of you.

I am nobody's muse so I made myself to dance with ignored deities in silk robes, who are brave enough to utter their names without their surnames.

I scrub my nails clean so that I can spill my words everywhere without regret, even on the steps of a cathedral where my sins will stink.

You can call me God for am the creator of all the devils and ghosts inside me.

You can call me a trespasser in my own home, but don't forget that am homeless.

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