A Murderer or Bloody Authoritarian
https://www.canva.com/design/DAF72lMjFZE/njgHEo9lop89rd1zShNPnA/view?utm_content=DAF72lMjFZE&utm_campaign=designshare&utm_medium=link&utm_source=editor
⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️Caution: This poem contains intense themes, invoking imagery of blood, massacre, malaria, coup d’état, and authoritarianism, exploring the dark facets of humanity. Reader discretion is advised.
They are pregnant with my blood,
From the buffet,
They had on my bone’s quilt.
Then I go after them with my palms,
Clapping them within them.
Till the field of my palms
Reflect the evidence of their massacre.
When the sun sets,
And the moon is set,
I wonder,
"How could I be kind
To those who buffet on my bone’s quilt,
To generously pay me malaria for wages?"
Each night,
I declare a coup d’état on them.
I switch off the life in them
Before they approach their birth beds
To give birth to crafts of themselves,
To deprive them their cradles within my shelter.
I decide,
Early,
That their young will never suckle
On the tiny perforations
On my bones' quilt
To refuse my bones their pangs.
Then I remember,
The One who made me
Made them too.
Does this make me a murderer,
Or a bloody authoritarian?
