I unweave threads of my silence, stitched on my skin

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What would the Mirror of Erised show you? 

(i) paper planes,
emptier than the sheets
that they’re made out of,
flying higher than the moon,
a lot more crescent 
than gibbous, 
reminding me of escape, 
ironically of a home too, 
a home I never had, 
a home that feels more like, 
four brick walls
than comfort in my being
and the smell of laughter. 

(ii) threadwork, 
stitched silences on my skin, 
I unweave every single thread
as I whisper your name, 
the Universe, afraid of my voice, 
sleeps a little earlier than usual. 
The earth stops rotating, 
the constellations dim out, 
the ticking stops,
there are only my words, 
and the silence between them,
that only my alphabets can pierce. 

(iii) I drown in my own paper boats, 
but drowning doesn’t feel like 
two walls closing in on me, 
my breath being sucked out, 
my lungs giving in, 
my heart forgetting how to beat, 
but home, 
in a way that only I can understand, 
that only I can feel, 
a place that only I call home. 

(iv) fear,
like tracing scars on my skin, 
that don’t feel like scars at all,
like a second skin, 
that feels a lot more human, 
and the scars don’t remind me 
of days I spent weeping to my silence, 
but courage, 
in a way,
I only know my heart beats, 
louder and louder, 
when they ask me to silence my screams.
I dress my panic up as conversation,
my laughter feels like I know 
all 88 constellations
like the back of my hand, 
the wax burns still remain there, 
from the last festival
that I decided I’d never celebrate again. 
I find courage in my fear.
I’m not alone, 
my scars whisper to me,
and sometimes,
I whisper back to them. 
_I unweave threads of my silence, stitched on my skin 


National Poetry Writing Month, Day 3. 


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