My Mother Told Me About Women Becoming Half-born Poems

My mother told me about Women becoming half-born poems, rumpled first draft thrown to the floor, messy, never existing, their screams sealed beneath the double peaks of what society dares to believe, even before I lived it.

Mother weeps for the lives exchanged, the crucifixion of their egos and wealth. In our fears and dreams, we become hunters, shaped from a stinging scar, a piercing maroon struggle, a looted poison buried in the butt of our visions.

How long is the distance between the joy that comes in the morning, and the sorrows that runs after it by night? The future can no longer count the days when living meant laughter, or when we bear a name like happiness and live it.

Our instinct for survival becomes the sword of self-destruction or defence, cutting through the rainbow wound that runs deep into the fearful hope of living, or the treasure of hunted memories.

The price of survival is to surrender or become a predator, one whose limbs are put on a leash, where our fears morph into ravens, and our beliefs, a doormat.

What we hunt becomes a bleeding cross, and our ego, a blindfolded nail that fuels the crucifixion of the soul. And what we lose becomes the only thing we don't remember.