I hate the constancy of portraits.
They carry the sin of immortalising souls.
Just like the walls of my pretty house
of not echoing the cacophony of abuses
I command the carriage of my diasporic self
to different places; craving for a home.
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.
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
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)