On stopping my writing to you

What if my first writing was a lie

the very first attempts at cursive, jokes of destiny toward

happenings I can no longer hide or paint over with a thick brush

thick colors, maroon and ocean blue over the damage that leeks from images

hues deeper than I can understand at a fragile age

it is a possibility, don't you think that rocks cannot stop bleeding

the way stitch-and-needle. Sewing is a way of reattaching

two ends of earth together, like bridging gaps that become without question

definitions of lack.This technique has been tested on punctured intestines too

I have seen the news of you. This sewing is too good, it works unlike my Teta's,

my grandmother's advice; she rubs olive oil on three-inch wounds,

olive oil has been her plaster, words have been mine.

No, you cannot rent my pen to write pages of lament and eulogies

to your bullet-holed poppies, and to the wheat crushed under foreign boots

when such delicateness dies and you chose the sword, all mightier

don't crawl back to ask for a pen, brittle or red with fury

Me and my pen,we are free of you, only because I chose my distance

I shall stop in instant my failure at addressing you in writings,

I will burn the letters, destroy the pictures and stop listening to the radio

like I can't because it is beeping an end of another life,

another house crumbling like a five year old's Lego, and a family is in the rubble

 as I head towards my classroom to learn how to write

you, worst is Teta's olive oil burning brown, going down the drain

what's happening to me?

I don't want to know what happens to you.

I live you, eat you, preserve you and now I want to revoke you

the way a body hisses at poison. I am tired because I know you deserve better

and I know I can no longer make you beautiful, make-up doesn't hide disasters

Well, maybe I need sleep instead of these ramblings onto cropped ears,

Maybe this is another lie I try to cover the only way I know

with words.