An intense, women-centric prose poem by Deeya, in Different Truths.
Fear is unknown; I’ve felt it in my fingers and toes. I backpack it in my nightmares. The devil’s face in sickening colours engulfs my shadow. Lilacs hum a weedy tune. The livid Oracle smears my porous skin. Running past tunnels of thick darkness, a magenta scream escapes my mouth. I relive the murky past. The surging clouds are snowflakes of agony. It drizzles. I can steer crystal clear. A pain is logged on my mother’s face, as she holds a dead foetus in skinny hands. Trees mourn-a deadening grief- an embryo of grief. The language of a rusty noon with shackles of sand is gritty. My mother rocks herself to sleep. Her muffled grief courts the dance of death. She repels my doomed thoughts. I squirm in it. The dread is a sepulcher of our fragrant dreams long lost in her hazel eyes.
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