My heart is an orphanage,
room aplenty for mouths screaming for their mother.
And I hope you’ll forgive me for being indecisive,
for not trusting you more readily,
it’s just that i was told eating an apple a day kept the doctor away,
and then I was told eating an apple would set paradise on fire,
and then I realised we all hold Apples in our hands,
trying to reach a place that was burnt long ago.
And how come these bad memories stick like tar to my insides?
Cling to me like burnt honey on the roof of mouth?
And what I am supposed to do now that there’s no old self to go back to?
–
Homecoming, I think that’s what it feels like.
Like in the process of setting myself on fire a thousand times,
I was able to find the breadcrumb-trail of snakeskins I’ve shed to guide me back home.
Like my sound healer knew what he was doing when he took one look at me and said:
You came dressed for a funeral, didn’t you?
It’s over now.
She’s dead.
So, what’s next?