I practised being dead corpse whenever anger struck me, some would say that this,
this was my own kind of lightning.
I would light tragic fires in the depths of your soul.
enrage you, quench your rage and light them again.
Placed my hands around your neck. gently pressed my lips against your’s, never asking to be pardoned.
Building me whole would have never been easy; so I imagine destiny never intended on my growth,
learning to heal,
to love myself
and to finally live to come from your palms.
The shrinking in what used to be love but became tolerance is still a constant reminder that, I am selfish in love or maybe,
hard to love.
My testament is that
I am not sorry for the wrath inhibiting in my bones.
My grandmother’s stubbornness.
My mother’s serenity to love absence.
And my father’s numbness.