Rebirth is not a cure

by Namitha Varma
(Bengaluru, India)

I inhale distress
and choke on the remains
of pain
hanging to the tonsils
from reasons long forgotten.

Heartbreaks,
bereavement,
disappointments,
failures –
they rise up in tides,
unforgiving,
unrelenting,
drowning me in their cacophonic gripe.

I disintegrate
into shards of forgotten memories
that cut into my escaping soul
and I bleed nothingness –

I open my eyes,
collect pieces of my shredded soul,
knit them together with the wisdom of ancestors unknown,
and wait for another death.

***

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