I will not give into lost love; my mother’s harsh edges will not scrape me
Impenetrably morphed into a sculpture unrecognisable.
Where you are hard, I will be soft in protesting reclamation.
Where you scream, I will whisper
Into the Moon, gentle sunrise’s witness, that watches
The fractals of your empire tear apart in gentle fissions
That I stick my fingers into, pry out the last morsel
Of my heart’s own kindness stolen from me.
Faithful, my heart beats on where yours never was
I dress in a gas mask of hope as everything you are
Crumbles to choking ruins that creep inside my trachea,
And the abusive marble tomb that I once called Home crumbles to empty
Dust.
[Jamie Martin – (they/he) – @j.writestheworld]
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