I’m strong enough to break the strongest holds now.
A will refined by sorrow makes the strongest steel today.
And so, this promise I shan’t break, wither or weather,
magnetic pull or push, allure or acid.
I vow to never read your lines again or give you
even a modicum of hope, because a grain to you
is blood, and once you see blood you circle
until you have your prey.
So, tell me, isn’t all that masquerades as sensuality
just a charlatan’s Bauta?
Aren’t those lines so subtly masked, marked by
a maelström of sadism coursing through you,
like blood-red horses running swiftly, whipped,
made to trample the broken and bruised?
Why do you seek out those wounded
and feign kindness?
Why do you gnaw on those already
bloodied until you’re fattened?
Do you think I don’t see? Do you think I
don’t recognize your patterns?
Either you’re just as hurt and conceal your
pain like a fool buries his treasure, or
you take pleasure in the despair of others
like a net that traps sorrowed fish.
And if it’s the latter, which it is, then you’ve
seen pain, but it has made you want to hurt,
hurl and abuse, and you do it so eloquently, so very eloquently.
Don’t come near me. My fury no longer possesses me
and my anger is cool, calm and calculated.
I no longer live to please. I no longer live for
the adoration of the rich and the poor because
if I had that I’d turn everything I touch to gold,
and what good will that bring me? I cannot eat gold.
I know you. I see you. I watch you. And let that
make you gloat with pleasure or shriek with rage,
or cower in fear. But I’ve broken your hold on me and
if you push me again, I’ll sever you in two using
apathy’s scythe with impunity.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)