Cut From Two Cloths
I am cut from two cloths,
Stitched together with glass black thread.
One- raw virgin flesh, embroidered to it- a simple mind;
The other- dripping wet in blood red, painted with pain, tough love, and aggression.
It's serrated edges dig deep into my skin,
Into my intestines, into my bones;
They barely secure my skeleton-
Just like holding a cat by its whiskers,
Until they tear off- one by one.
The final fabric that became to be,
Covers my mind and bruised body;
Damp as it grew- mold and mildew-
They feed off of the rare bits of joy and peace.
The chronic fungi seems to be full now,
'Cause there's nothing left in the reserve now,
Nothing- but grief, rage, and lust.
The blood in my veins appear to have been wasted,
For fifteen years, or fifteen months (or fifteen days?),
'Cause they don't shine as Opal gems,
And flow as pitch black ink,
When I write anymore.
Nevermind however hard I try,
To rip the pieces up, to lacerate my own skin,
To gush out the family blood and dry my veins,
Something Evil in my head negates my dedication,
To play escape in a yellow, bright vacation.
'Cause one of the cloths was tore apart from my mother's saree;
And the other, from my father's kurta.
