chaiNboli

Soon there will be a day when I sell your name so that I can wear my sanity  you ripped me off. And then Gods will admit that they were bored of fruits  served in brass plates and demand the compensation for all the acting they had to do. The sun will stretch its legs through the pool of a child's tears, just like a father who can  only spell softness and never live it. Clouds will forget their lines, thunder will stammer, and the sky will confess it envies the silence of  an old widow's bed. The mirror will finally speak, not of beauty, but of all the names I swallowed to keep peace in someone else’s house. Then maybe I will admit we were a shipwreck with no survivors, no driftwood, not even a gull to mourn us. Until then, my lentils will burn, laughing at my ashen fingers— mocking the woman who knew how to build altars but never how to leave them. And somewhere between  the hiss of the stove and the crack in my lip, you will be reborn— not as a memory, but as ...