Violence feels fit in my hands, 
its pale blue eyes not a threat to others:
Only to myself.
But there is failure next to it, 
the polite inability strangle myself 
with my own hands other than in metaphors.
I have stopped talking about pain_
I fear than it will break into thousands pearls while passing thick earlobes.
/My pain is a mute child with closed eyes./
I have let God to give answers, his divinity 
a scribe to me, foolishly believing his existence, only to be disappointed.
/ God is a hydrogen balloon lost in the clouds/
I have waved enough farewells to know that the space between the fingers are glued in such occasions inorder to stop memories to leak out.
/ Memories have outstayed their stay/
So, as the last option to stay alive,
I look around and finds you, 
looking at me like a bubbling tea cup.
You become the open mouth on the black throat of a wall, cradling hopes, waiting to be seen, waiting to be noticed.
The world trembles in the knot of my belly , syllables blind of meaning rises in my throat, broad strokes of love in silence.
I turn into a metal piece- 
ductile, malleable, a good conducter.
And cold.
My eyes vainly grasp your shadow.
I evolve into the sweet smooth skin of a tropical fruit, waiting patiently 
for the small catastrophe of a teeth mark 
over me, a souvenir.
I clutch the delicate caution.
I become a night, the unintelligible language of cicadas pulsing through the veins, 
a hammering all over the blackness .
I plea devils to have mercy on me.
I can't breathe - you are the word 
and also the echo.
How can I say that you are threatening me?
How should I beg you to purify me?
You, a sacred monster, making me
choke on gutturals, chewing every minute like sunflower seeds -
I became a little spoon.
And you are the saviour with giant mouth.

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