The Seeker

Before memory could rub the sleep out from her drowsy eyes,

the language of hunger

was carved into my bones.

The precisive marks of it’s calligraphy

cut through membrane,

and slicing into marrow,

licked the tender heat

of my blood.

At night, when silence descends

and the only sound is of the trees whispering to the wind

I hear the word seeker reverberate from beneath my skin,

and I twist, distorting into shapes I have never seen

recognising hints of myself

in the hollowed grooves of the spaces between.

The ancient intonation mixed into my bloodstream

comes alive, and like a marionette

I am propped up,

without invitation, 

to dance.

Beholden to an urgency that I have inherited

from places I have never been,

the choreographer has my steps sweep

over the fragile ashes of my dreams,

my heart weeping as I see them being smeared

across the soles of my weary feet.

Who is the Carver,

the Puppetmaster,

the One who propels me?

If I asked the mirror, would the answer

shatter me?

Am I enslaved to a beast

that is no different than me?

Tonight, I will fight,

I tell myself.

Tonight, I will not let my poisoned instinct

ride over me.

Tonight, I will force myself to lie still,

let the strings pull themselves astray,

I will not sway.

The voices will shriek,

they will tell me this is my destiny,

but this time, I will not dance,

I will not seek,

I will deny the hunger that churns inside my bones,

my rebellion will feed me.