God may be forgiving 
But my mother is not. 
There is a ghost
her prayers can't exorcise,
So she turns into a door
that won't let a colour enter.
This is not cruelty ,
But a precaution.
So, she turns into a stain.
It remains even when
I lick my plate clean.
Like a hive, it multiplies
mocking the lakes I visited.
So, she turns into a papaya.
Bland, sweet and seasonal.
Like my regret, it takes shapes
it can't phantom itself. 
There are pathogens who 
enjoy living in their hosts,
And then there are ones that 
beg for antibiotics.
Am both.
She is both.
We are, yet, not same.
The hammer beats the iron,
the iron turns into glass.
The glass pretends to be iron,
The glass breaks,
There is no metaphors left.

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