All that I’ve got is a sinful heart
I am offering. What is it for a cloak in you
that I wanted to be clothed in?
Blessing is only for the poor, widowed
and miserable. But there is a peeping hole
even in the darkest cave. An entrance
to forgiveness. It is not my privilege
to ask. My heart is just a child resisting
the world’s demand and rules, forgetting
loved ones who waited as being so deep
in my own story of fear and anger and terror.
And I forgot to love. And I forget that I am
still a child who needs to be cared for.
I still have a fear of the belt marking my skin.
There is a picture of a monster in every corner.
That is the reason why I write stories.
There are memories I want to resist –
My mumbling voice, too tight as a child
inside my socks, and every street
was treacherous. I was lost. Then
I just want to tell stories. I want to tell
the world about love. And I am not
afraid of remembering anymore.
A child has risen.
