Catharsis

Purification

Voices in the train cut my braids

(My braids were the wind’s favorite mistress

In another life time)

Voices scratch my head until they shave it.

Until I fit in beautifully like a stone.

They spit into my pores.

And I vomit all the naughty suns in me.

And kiss them back.

Mmmm…That was delicious.

I step on the aborted suns, ritually

Make me your own goddess, then rape me.

I’ll smile and persist. Why wouldn’t I?

I am made to stay forever, in your trash bin

A bio-undegradable jewel.

Take me, take me, take me with you.

I’m prêt-à-porter.

We are never cured. Our immunity system is a myth kept alive by our cancerous narcissism. My flesh is leaking something red and precious. I yell: "Give me my blood back". They say you don’t need it; it’s a burden. The more you leak, the greater are your chances to survive. Bleeding is maturity. I try to cure myself on my own. I make my pen leak sadistically, egoistically. And my blood stops flowing outside. It carefully goes up and gives a little color to my lips. I breathe. I yell triumphantly: "I’m over all this. I’m a goddess. I burn you. I kill you. In my triumph, in my glory, in the leaking of my pen, I kill you, and cure my self. You burn in my hell. I am high.

But I fall, I fall…

                                                                        I fall…

                                                                                  I fall."

And my fingers get burnt with my pen. My pen becomes my hell. And I burn forever, a raped

goddess.