Scratches On My Gravestone

| Filicide |

I saw the world from the palm of your hand:

Rough and cracked, lines poisoned with bitter,

Cartography, life petrified, road map unchanging,

Our minds rot sharing your eyes, swallowing words dry.

Impossible.

Unquestioned tradition, I read each face.

Wrinkled rules hold answers without love and say

I do not exist.

Created by sin, my identity trembles as the walls close in.

How can I reach past the barriers of your iron fist?

Protection becomes a synonym of my destruction.

Soul suppressed,

I disappear.