To which I fold inside this invisible cage: the walls are thin but the whispers are thick. My throat is choked by elderly mandates as they throw old memories, obsolete rules which turn our “selves” so small. Convenience is a bribe; underneath such comfort is a pool of tension.
To which I am silenced by their selective memories. This is my tongue: tethered by arguments wrapped in victim’s clothing. I open my mouth, only to find my voice dismissed into anger & shame. I open my mouth, but why do you dice this reasoning? I have become mute.
To which I am dragged by matters of old principles perpetuated not just by permission but by pride. My legs — they have been chained by parables of forgotten antiquities. I owe this home something and nothing at the same time. The windows are half-open. My spirit is heavy. The air has gone stale.
To which I see myself as nothing but a puppet. The threads which pull my hands are held by wrinkled fingers. They weave a web of deceit under the guise of ‘guilt’ & ‘age’ and ‘bloodline.’ I am reduced into a projection of this family’s decay. I have become nothing but a meaningless surname.
The corridors are open; the doors are shut. The windows are broken; the walls are cracked.