by Nitin Lalit Murali
I called my father today and told him that his death
will give me closure.
“Why don’t you jump off the balcony
while I’m talking to you? You’ll do us all a favor,”
I said, seething with rage.
Echoes of abuse never become whispers;
the past lies mangled like the hind leg of a deer
in the mouth of a lion,
the future is as cut up as paper put through
a voice in the dark
that’s as sharp as a blade screams, “Injustice!”
But does that give me a right to become the very man
I detested growing up?
A tormented, tortured, theatrical fool,
a disgruntled, discontented, disgusting do-nothing,
an uneasy, unstable, unsettled madman.
I wish there was more to life than
looking at my shattered reflection,
I wish there was more than drowning
in a green abyss of self-loathing and hate,
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