My burning rage

I know today my senses lie in a burial chamber but I want to write about organic farming in which my ancestors planted extra arms around my body to make me feel less lonely.

I want to mock the cat leaping at my grandma for food because the cowardly cat was prepared to die eight more times rather than face human loneliness.

But l get hunger attacks thinking about it and now l want to add finger shaped gingers at the opposite ends of my waist and dip it in a light flame

to get a permanent frame of someone holding me.

But in my every picture somehow, my cloth becomes a fragment of a loose hand in a loose pocket and they drop dead when l open the fridge wiping away my self-esteem with the freon gas.

I know the sky is a large enough sheet of insurance policy which covers tantrums of all destroyed weapons.

The ocean is a blue carpet to welcome all the stories about refugees.

But everytime l don't want to be the one talking about losses.

I don't want to be a religion which hunts scapegoats for bad weather.

I don't want to be the mill factory where fathers unrolled sheets and forgot to bring their limbs back with them.

I don't want to be a ventilator carrying dead people because once my mother told me we become what we think.

And I think if l could have drawn, l would have sketched this:

A park where each person has seven coupons to last for a week.

It will be traded like crypto currency to hug any stranger who has a laughter vaccine.

So I sit on a bench in the middle because l want to stretch hope on both sides.

A girl unwraps a wrapper in front of me and spills the toffee onto the grass.

She giggles and picks it up telling me about the 5-second rule.

I look helplessly at my page and finally decide to write nothing on it today because my skin is burning like a skinned animal gone mad in a butcher's nightmare.

Damn my ancestors, did they run away in search of my friends or for their own freedom?

Isn't freedom absence of a wrong touch?

I remember the last sunday when the preacher warned me l should watch less baseball and instead l must try to catch the devil inside me.

But he wasn't impressed with my confession in which l wanted to touch everyone who is awake.

So after the Church l visited a prison yard and a paddy field.

A shovel was leaning on an old tree and the prisoners sweated their guilt while washing their sins in the dirt.

Meanwhile a farmer stood with fears orbiting his hips and his waist churned into the ragged structure of a chewed sugarcane in front of my eyes.

While today a fireman in my street sped himself with a prayer to push the sky down.

I don't know why it happened but they all didn't get water in the right amount.

And no god came to pick up their mistakes under five seconds because everyone can't be saved at the same time.

I know l can't be an output of a successful rescue mission unless l forgive man-made disasters inside my building.

I have to convince myself that love is to cry for flowers and still be mad about bees.

And if l can't be saved, let me die and when l die, don't burn me because I'm afraid to fade away slowly, afraid to tremble in the open when the night closes in.

Afraid to be blown out birthday candles just to feel the light.

Now l want to cry for the crushed can lying near my toes.

It begs me to forgive the kicks of those school kids with torn sleeves before l return home.

And l know in the morning their mothers were so caught up decorating their blues they lost their way to the kitchen.

As l said l want to cry, but my body is sick.

And the chemist told me I shouldn't break down during high fever because paracetamols get confused that way.

Burning is a liquid rage and let me sail while l still breathe the universe.

So today l have to prefer anger because my therapist charges more when I'm sad.

And every alternate day l have to buy groceries, so l can't afford to be sad daily.

So after buying them and before peeling them, l will slam my door and save my room because my sister says she worries more when l don't slam my door.

And l will sit on my floor, sleep while listening to the ending song of Finding Nemo.

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