there is beauty in forgetfulness.
of letting the past
slip like ashes to the floor
as you venture
into an uncharted future
far from your childhood home.
when words are weaponized —
keep silent
or sharpen yours well,
and then hurl them back
with deadly accuracy
until your target bleeds.
obedience was never my thing,
so while my brother
scoured genealogies in vain
for ancestral saints
worthy of raising the dead,
i kept silent
like a wounded bird
until it was time to fly
far from that twisted,
desiccated nest
without a single glance back
over my broken wing.
but some wounds never heal.
instead, they go numb
in places meant to feel —
and be felt —
in return. if only
the past could burn.
