The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
by Sheikha A.
I was here for his lungs –
my one truest – traipsing
through lives bearing his
cord to my navel – my one
soulmate. I come from
a progeny of loyalists;
we attach ourselves
to those we love – he
was my generation gone
and yet to come. He fell
easy, it was never hard to get
him to love me – the runner
that he has always been –
only never stayed in my forever.
It was becoming tiresome
chasing, making him remember
our love that was meant to be – us,
the surviving unit of the universe.
He cut my cord each life
as he was going to yet again.
I was going to let him go –
I had evolved/awakened/
enlightened to the spirit of
the highest good – abandoning
my need to wear him like skin;
to exchange flesh and blood –
so many lifetimes in birth
and death – he’d forget my taste
in his memory. Each time I ate
a piece of him, we’d vow on blood
we’d never part. My body must
have carried scars far many than
the stars in several galaxies –
all the lifetimes of running
blades on each other in fervour;
desperate promises of never
losing the other again. We’d find
each other by these maps we carved;
all these lifetimes of youth
and old age, wasted. Confused
and dazzled just how he always was,
I decided to stop chasing. But, I could
keep some of him – any of him – if not
his soul this life around. I caused
his brain to die; I dug my hands in
his burning body to fetch from where
he breathed – from where he inhaled
knowing – his life insulated mine
by every organ; we would stop
meaning to be – the plan of source.
His skull shivered under the tongue
of the flames. I didn’t let him reduce
to ash – how could I –
stop making him to be.
I left his heart – to be free –
I snatched his lungs – as if –
so he’d never find human form
in whatever life he chose to return.
Fiction © Copyright Sheikha A.
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com.
More from author Sheikha A.:
Poems by Sheikha A. and Suvojit Banerjee
“The night is cold enough to inspire poetry,” says Sheikha A. in her poem, “Reading My Bones.” This is the basis of Nyctophiliac Confessions – poems that are introspective and luminal, poems that require a certain amount of silence and space to be fully formed and appreciated. Reading these poems, I imagined that they were the kind of poems that assert themselves unbidden during a bout of insomnia. (A nyctophiliac being someone who loves the night or loves darkness).
Nyctophiliac Confessions is the 17th installment of Praxis’ chapbook series and contains twenty-six poems written by two poets, Sheikha A. and Suvojit Banerjee, interspersed with abstract paintings by Robert Rhodes.