Her

Written by Nayara Noor (The Debater, third speaker) , Class X

They say heaven exists under a mother’s feet
Yet how cruelly millions of heavens are spat upon
Torn apart under the label of ‘not enough’
How can you respect the Omnipresent
And disregard the womb that He sent you in,
The arms that cradled you as you cried,
The voice that sang you to sleep with eyes that were awake all night ?
But if heaven exists under a woman’s feet,
Where does that leave hell?
Before you make a fist,
think of the mark your ring Will leave on her face,
the same ring with which you pledged your love
As you swore to protect her from all harm
Realise that you need to protect her from yourself.
Her ring collects dust every time you aim that blow,
just ask yourself Who collects the shards of glass you leave,
with bleeding fingers and toes Making your favorite meals,
Hoping you’ll love her again tomorrow?
Don’t hold her too tight,
her fragile bones may crumble
and shatter Like her mother’s spirit had,
before her breath gave away Look into her eyes
and bless the perfect cheekbones,
And the tiny hooked nose, that looks so much like her mother’s.
As you watch her grow, swearing to protect her with your every bone,
Think of how you swore the same for the woman you had once loved.
And remember what a great job you had done at it.
They say heaven exists under a woman’s feet.
And you, brave lad, managed to make them bleed every night.
So where, stranger, does that leave hell?

A/N “what I’m trying to say is,
I always wondered what hell would feel like,
I just never knew I’d love it so goddamn much” -the artidote 8/6/15

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s