Homeless

I hate the constancy of portraits.

They carry the sin of immortalising souls.

Just like the walls of my pretty house

are guilty

of not echoing the cacophony of abuses

I command the carriage of my diasporic self

to different places; craving for a home.

And wonder.

If my lover will ever discover my strength

in the hollowness between my clavicle?

Desperate to pounce at any ounce of affection.

Desperate to find a home in his arms.

I wonder

if he will ever comprehend the flash of my eyes

as they coalesce scattered flashbacks into a cobweb of paranoia?

And abandon his embrace

for the cloak of my insecurities.

I look at my little sister

and wonder.

if she will ever understand why the chronicles of our family

lambasted my existence.

I wonder if her head will bow down

to the burden of their honor-laden chaddar?

Or wreak havoc?

Stifling her soul with the burden of a greater vengeance.

I want to save and preserve

her present self

before she resembles the caricature in my mirror.

(picture by Laura Gomez)