By Aarju Thakur
If I am a wound to God I wonder what he might use to overcome me.
If I am a wound to God I wonder what he might use to overcome me.
Shall I express it through the tapestry of words calling it a handloom weave?
Or for whom do I change endlessly turning
If s-he's me does all the pleasure, the pain, the quotes I read first travels from erim (herhim).
Or the God despises me to the point that erim never flutters around me.
If I am a wound to God, does He nurse me tenderly,
or let me fester until I become something unrecognizable, even to Him?
Does He stitch me with silence, or leave me open—
an unanswered prayer bleeding into the night?
If s-he’s me, then am I just fragments stitched together,
pleasure and pain borrowed from erim's passing whims?
Do I speak in echoes, not knowing which voice belongs to whom—
or do I exist only as a reflection that the mirror rejects?
And what if God, tired of my turning,
watches me spiral endlessly like thread on a loom—
woven not for beauty, but to unravel, piece by piece,
until nothing remains but frayed edges and lost meaning?
Would He despise me for breaking the pattern,
or is the act of becoming undone the very thing He desired all along?
Erim never flutters around me—
perhaps they never existed, or maybe I was meant to flutter alone.
What if I am not a creation, but a mistake He keeps repeating,
each cycle hoping this time I’ll change into something He can love?
And yet, I keep turning, shifting, unmaking—
because for whom do I remain, if not for the quiet God who watches and waits?