Grave-Rooted, Sky-Sore. And Other Lies
Hurt is a hereditary debt, sown into my bloodline, passed down like
tainted seed. Trust is a brittle stalk snapped before it flowers.
So, I root in a lonely scrubland. Fists like knotty burls, nose a busted plum
Eyes perpetually salt-marsh slick. Bared teeth are my native tongue.
Easier to gnaw than to nest. They tried to spin heaven in a lab coat,
fed it ambrosia paste. Then clutched their pearls when their spliced cherub
split its chrysalis, oozing ichor, wings like shivered slate. As if
their clumsy fingers could coax pure bloom.
I tunneled up through grave-cold clay, arrived grit-smeared, not stardust.
But listen, sapling: you needn't be the blight you sprouted from.
I clawed from hellfire, charred but hardly divine. Go figure.
Smoke lacks halo-shine. I watched the fox rehearse the wolf’s part,
practiced snarls in mirrors. Faked the hunter’s art.
Lie enough to your own veins, and it settles into your blood.
So I am: honeycomb. All golden swirl and amber drip, sweet as
a ripening mango. sucking the syrup. The glorious, feral engine
chewing its own wires. I crown myself god at dawn only to grovel by dusk,
tracing the lightning scars where heaven flayed its rivals raw.
Watched the Fall. Know the plummeting price. I saw what you did
to Martyrs who thought them you.
Nitya Wahi, NJ, John P Stevens High School
