I want the confessionals I posted
on Facebook, erased from people’s
minds, I don’t want traces of them
lingering, alerting my acquaintances
to a mad man who shamelessly
tore himself apart, flayed himself
alive with exposed secrets and
dark desires. They all know the same
guilt, I know, but I’d rather hide
it like they do with pictures of
sunset-clad, blue-watered Venice
where the boats whisper past
gothic architecture saturated with
stained glass windows and pointed
arches. I didn’t know how to
mask my insecurities, and so,
I knelt at the booth of perfect smiles
and achieved goals paraded like
national flags and spilt it all:
milk and blood, the reverberation of
the past breaking my footing and
the hushed screams of the future
yanking me to apathy’s shore,
tossed about and unsure, I navigated
the turbulent waters of pain,
outrage, terror and religiosity.
Oh, Lord! Why didn’t you help me?
But then, I was always a spoilt child,
seeking the adoration of the
crowd, looking for compassion
from them who are seen rather
than Him who isn’t,
perhaps it’s human, a weakness
and a failing to search and re-search
for kindness in the worst places,
the outcry is now well worn,
it’s overstayed its welcome,
there is no need for a helping hand
because ostracism and stigma
are the only friends of those
who know the vicissitudes of
this reality –
a perennial plummet,
splitting atoms of trust and
self-belief while crashing.

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