/This is where I have been born,
But have never lived./
You believe that odd numbers are unlucky and then remember that you were born on day bearing claw marks of it.
You heard your mother putting her tongue to dry when you were born so you know the world spins on the words of a man.
You have walked through indigo rooftops in your nightmares not afraid of slipping and falling, chalking songs on  every enemy post.
Your hands turn into an assassin with a crooked smile, so beware of the glorious cruelty it hides.
You are searching a biblical mercy in the  sharpness of a knife, which translated the ancient language of the scars you hide.
You are asking the blind white worms not to disturb you with their sliver paintings over muddy skins.
You are hammered by God to fit into the mould but you have read that grief has no form, igniting violence in form of helplessness.
You are a bird who mistook pebbles for bread crumbs and rejoiced in quenching your hunger without knowing you were going to die of the food you chewed with your baby teeth.
You are the last blue pill in the glass jar,  garnished with stupidness of an onion moon, waiting to be swallowed by a kleptomaniac.
You spread air over your bread, imagining it is butter and guilt over your wounds, thinking its an ointment.
Your throat is cloaked with a type writer ribbon knotted there, slowly denying you the pleasure of vanishing instantly.
You keep your script in the eyes, red as  ripe peppers, like a ship slitting it's own shadow in the sea which is photographing vastness of the sky.
You steal the name of someone who forgot you and whisper it to the night,trying to stitch new spells to your waxed heart.
You tied your hair into the feathers of angels, afraid that otherwise you will turn into a refugee who ate saltwater for breakfast.
You put a needle on the heart of the doll you own, to stop it from bleeding the mispronounced blessings .
When memory puts three bullets on your head whenever you open your eyes, will you be able to breathe?
May be you should open your mouth so that the wind can analyse the last prayer you uttered.
Even a curse is a prayer.
Run, with those legs of yours
thin as a grenade pin.
/This is where I have been killed,
But never died./

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