By Salsime C'ran
I grew up in a house, splintered with tension's might,
A ticking time bomb disguised itself as a silent night.
I was born in this shattered space, a burning house,
Embracing the sparks, befriending the flames that aroused.
Whatever path I choose, it ignited the air,
A blazing fire, fuelled by their glare.
They blamed me for the inferno, and the rage I bore,
But it was their cruel hands that struck the match, their cruelty I abhor.
Can they find solace in condemning the consequence?
Their actions forged the fire, my existence, hence!
They cried foul when my words grew louder,
But forget the days I spent silent, learning to bite my tongue, because theirs lacerated deeper.
'Twas her voice that taught me how to shout, to let the flames unfold;
'Twas his skin, I tiptoed around, like the subterranean tremor to behold.
How could I not bear this ferocity, this searing rage?
A legacy passed down, fuelled every stage.
I learned it growing up: love isn't always kind and patient,
or gentle as summer's breeze.
It is slammed doors, burnt houses, and bruised skin,
that bears the scars of memories.
A child born in a burning yet cold home
thinks that the world's ablaze, all-consuming roam.
Turned out that it's not the world but rather the fire within —
a hell in its virgin state, a flame that flickers, yet never dims.
Like a feather's gentle touch, but lacks warmth's embrace;
Like a silhouette meant to clothe, but display the nakedness.
They called the burning child "a chaos" and "a soul astray";
When I'm merely a spirit that has mimicked many souls, a heart that's learned to sway.