Again,
the house has smell of alcohol
With the sulfur of garlic on acrid vomit
And every utensil turned drunk
From that of my father’s bitter tongue
Ivory plates break into pieces
While forks quiver as they hit the dusty ground.
A silver basin on the sink screams
As a dent hit its body,
And a recycled paint bucket
expels a hollow cough
after a pouncing foot.
But like the plates
The lips of my mother burst to bleed
From a kiss with the fist
Of a man we used to know:
For tonight
He is not our father.
He choked her like the spoon
That her body shudders
But she tries to pull his hands away
From her airpipe.
He threw her to the ground
And she sits gasping
As if with a straw
Not the
Kids please
Not
The kids
A kick to her face punctuates
Her incoherent sentence
That she exhales red.
From our room,
We cover our ears with our hands
Forcing ourselves to only hear
Our silent sobs.
We thought
Maybe he heard mother cry
Such as those times he hit our back with his belt
Telling us
To stop crying
But none of the nights we know that we did.
We just hide on the cabinet.
Some other time
with the cobwebs under the bed.
We cover our mouths if needed
Or we bite our lips
Until we taste what's like metal
but a fresh blood.
We tremble like the utensils he had on his dinner
With my mother
Who served all those to him.
And like any of those cutleries,
We get picked up the next morning
As if no horror has happened---
Again,
The house has smell of alcohol
With the sulfur of garlic on acrid vomit
And every utensil turned drunk
From that of my father’s bitter tongue.
— Birth
For more of my works, follow me on my socials. See you there!
ig: u/iam_rawbirth
fb: Raw Birth (https://web.facebook.com/roro.dg.16/)
Posted Mar 4, 2024, 11:06 AM UTC