METEMPSYCHOSIS
The womb of my mother is my cynefin. To know myself, I must weave through the coagulated exploitation of my ancestors; and impatience is my virtue. I study the intricate patterns on my skin trying to decipher whose fury etched the path to my future. Some days, I mistake palmar creases for scales. How can a girl born of destruction learn to walk before she learns to slither?
Conniving / deceitful / sinuous / I have made myself into a serpent / and yet I fall upon the sword / of the pain borne by women I do not know / MARTYRED / a martyr before I have tasted blood / all in fashion for their redemption / TEMPESTUOUS / UNDESERVING / CRUEL / I run out of time before my times up / I speak with a forked tongue because I do not know what it means to be whole / they call me fabricated / am I not / falsified / by my personhood / by their suffering/ by forces unseen
I try to shed the burden of knowing. I ignore the whispered pleas screaming DO BETTER reverberating through my bones. I pretend they do not burn as if touched by white phosphorus. I muffle them by pretending the curve of my spine was made of my own indifference. Maybe today I can be an organic cell untouched by humanity. Maybe tomorrow I will be myself.
But a serpent cannot grow legs. It cannot brace itself and run with all its might. Doomed to spend the rest of its years slinking through weeds taller than they’ll ever be. Wanting to be more; BE BETTER; yet accepting its hisses will never be gospel. I lather myself in oil and ignore the sharp edges of my scabbing skin. I run my tongue over my teeth and ignore the venom laced ends. Never accepting that my throat cannot form the words to cure my past. Their past. I have spent years subduing the voices of my predecessors that I do not heed their warning. I feel their caution take root in my mind, but patience has never been my virtue.
How does a soul progress if it cannot die? I’ve been dead long before I was even born. When I choke on my own flesh, I will revel in the metallic taste of my blood, knowing there is no true end.
Maryam Rashika, 19, Kuala Lumpur - Malaysia ✯ IG: @maryrashika ✯ BACK TO POETRY: OUROBOROS
“Maryam Rashika is an aspiring poet whose verses dance on the delicate threads of self-reflection, generational trauma, and the profound tapestry of human experiences. Drawing inspiration from the timeless narratives of Greek mythology, she attempts to create a connection between the divine and the earthly in her poetry. Maryam often draws insight from the human connections she observes; navigating through the intricacies of the human psyche.”