Moth House

Revolution

We are nurtured as a refugee in a stranger land, where people wear masks and women are covered in veils head to toe.
Concealing is a sign of dignity and preserving modesty. So you are told to conform, keeping your identity and body a clandestine from the world you desperately seek to touch.
But the day your wings break after being tortured in the same broken reality repeatedly, bright stringent feathers begin to sprout on your bruised back.

There is this feeling of a revolt in the vicinity, the winds have no shape, wine is no longer red sweet liquid but a poison you drink to feed the mind with thoughts of corruption and misadventures.
From childhood you never believed in permanence yet you clung to it with your wilting fingers.
The land, of your dreams, isn’t familiar anymore like a warm memory, rather a hearth where human blood is scattered like holy water.
‘What is holy’? you ask. The time you recede in between your own legs and admit that a you are weak and fragile. When you say your prayers before lunch and don’t dare to show the flesh, its a sin to expose.
Since that day you swore to carry a razor in your mouth, you would rather be a sinner than someone who is afraid.
‘I am the next revolution’ you declare, mother slaps you hard so hard and father, his lips don’t even move an inch. Silence is enough to conform. However the wings of the devil speak of how from fire you were forged and how those fingers are meant to start a riot.
‘What is holy?’ they ask.
The time when you grow your own teeth with blood inside those gums, you are not afraid to swallow the entire sun even if it burns you whole.