By Spurti Aluru
I had instructions on what to do before:
Guides from my creator on the path to take.
Directories of all the people I met, the things I did, the things
(I’m yet to —)
Hollow.
The reins to reign the marionette I once was — a phantom.
The key to my sacred map — skewed.
Where is my lock?
Portfolios dictating my liver, lungs, tongue —
it feels punctured now.
I cannot tell if what envelopes me is frisson or fear...
Oh,
the
trenchant
blade
of
fear.
Its piercingly unerring strike — never misses.
My assembled vertebrae: fractured by a spear I can but place.
My assembled lion’s heart: spalled into that of a falcon.
But
I
do
have
wings.
It’s fresh, free, liberating almost, if it weren’t for this narrow,
narrow, narrow cage — rusty and restless.
Brittle as glass.
As the splintered fragments of my past life shatter, I quiver to reassemble them.
How is it people decide?
How do you weave your consciousness, heart,
mind, and soul to craft an identity?
What do you do when the fuel leaks?
Stifled are the influx of decisions I should make.
Pierced are the frenzy of neurons coursing through my veins.
Crowned are the jewels of this fallen hero
to someone else’s vertex.
I am a (protagonist) no more.
Was I just an accumulation of intricately designed words?
Who am I without my elixir of valor?
My nectar of existence?
(My story, my life, my universe — constantly redacted.)
I thought I had a purpose, a mission, a worthy ending.
But now, as I (swim) drown amidst this void, my legacy being rewritten,
rethreaded, restitched,
I struggle to construe how to (operate) use this newfound thing that I have.
The one that thrones Reason, ever witty and sharp.
The one that battles Fervor, ever fickle and stark.
The one that governs Conduct, ever moral or dark.
The sovereignty with the reins to ride its world.
If only I could tame it.