You might find me dangling on the tree,
Or on the sea floating without any breath.
I did not want to take the road less travelled by,
But my soul within has ripped apart.
When you return on the morrow,
I will have been beneath the coverings of the earth,
Shielded away from the prickles,
The needle-like leaves that haunt me,
Every day on the agonizing bed.
I find it hard to live while dying slowly,
Like an earthworm sprinkled by salt.
You see me as an unripe fruit,
Stuck to the branch and undefiled.
But shall I blow the trumpet of woes?
Though, they might be of the bitter notes.
I have been taken so long from the tree,
With force and sucked like a ripe orange.
My holy temple has been desecrated since twelve,
Not by a wayfarer nor the outsider.
But by the very one that birthed me
Whom you married– my Father.
The first time I thought it was love
When his hand would caress my lap
And kissed me hard while we laughed.
But as the dawn dived into dusk,
I was enslaved and made a whore.