Those who prayed for roses
 called us silly for giving our clothes to trees on winter.
They offered us toffees 
for every word we said,
without seeing our eyes turning corrosive with each year.
They were reading us 
stories of little pigs
When we tip topped 
towards the sun,
ready to melt our bones 
so that we can taste 
something other than anger.
In the dark we sat and waited 
for the tendrils of 
our mother tongue to 
find us and caress us while 
they told us we are useless.
We won't tell that that 
it's a comfort that it is them
who twisted the sickle into our hearts.
Instead we write poems,
breath starved and with hands 
that are stiff from riger mortise.
Instead we weight the bullets
wondering whether it is heavier than 
what we wish to kill.
Instead we wash our hearts so that 
we can clean their dirty feet.
Today we are kittens who love ignorance, 
wrapping our veins around 
wrists of strangers
 in hope of homes.
We are daybreaks on our own sky,
Obsessed with carbonating 
our memories in bottles 
so that we can feed
our lovers with happy stories.
Our name is a wound 
which is a song,
which in turn is a shadow.
which can be called a silence,
A silence too cowardly to utter.
This is why every word of us 
Sound like an epiphany,
A pupil burnt in rain.
To whom should we apologise, 
Other than to ourselves?

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