you spend years wondering if this
is the soil you want to shoulder,
the soil you want to be shouldered by.
the paroxysm of wanting a death
does not come to you as pinprick but one
stretched out into idiosyncrasy for
an entire people.
your entire people
to kill or
something must die.
the emotion rises within you
like a biting pledge. you want to lay claim.
say your words. shed your
skin but stop the sacrificed dead
from dying. the parched throats
from licking rotten wounds
of the parasites
to water their children.
but you can't.
you want to husk the lumbering layers of torment
the ones you wear to school. to have
lunch with your mother. to meet
your friend seconds before the rupture
you have been warned about since childhood
finally flies through your flesh
and nearly takes you.
but you can’t.