Sahar Noumi | + Follow Poet |
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Children sold souls

I try, in despair, to condense a tale from the illusion of your specter into language.
I bleed burning tears that sprinkle salt on the wounds of my cheek, its lot deprived.
I beg you to listen to the moan of my heart in the tightening of tone in my voice and in the trembling of the lip.
I ask you for a space on a day of your choosing in which I will confess what pains me of oppression that is difficult for me to disclose.
I wish, while I blaze and shatter, drowning in the fires of a forbidden love,
a knife along the length of the smile that splits the cells and the tears,
that I might wake one time-place and not find you suffering a stifled repression.
They inspired the following to me:
I do not think anyone reached this state of awareness of misery and continued resisting. I do not claim thereby the heroism of resistance at all, for “you are compelled, brother, not a hero.” I surrender to my restraints and my limitation as merely a genetic mutation unfit for evolutionary continuation.
I surrender, by my incapacity, before the simplest of silly potentials. I surrender in my helplessness before myself.
I accept the walls of my cage that were and will remain my home.
There is no freedom for the possibility of desire to choose. I will merge with my prison until every self of me is executed in an annihilating execution with no hope of manifesting in a subsequent life. I will ensure the death of every quantum particle of me so that there is no revival of the memory of the idea, so that disappearance is the final true death.
I recall my writing about my longing for the following forms of life; by cosmic irony, by this moment I feel nothing about that.
Possibility no longer allows more. I have exhausted infinity and I will return to point zero. I will return to where I belong and do not belong, and there will be no concepts of things.

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