Subversive and Unnecessary (Perhaps Not)
Author: D’Bara Arruda

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Dear me:
This is about the exhaustion of being good in a world of emotional vampires.
— And if you suck lemons of coherence to add acidity to reason,
they sweeten them with compliments and caresses
with an alcohol content of ninety percent,
just to intoxicate your ego.
As a precaution, spit out the rotten garlic
of biblical blessings,
which sound completely superfluous
to the ears of the individuality that sins
and seduces you into settling for minimal evolution.

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Sorry, Gil.
What do you mean, if I want to talk to God?
He should be the one to talk to me
and explain why He crucifies me on the cross of human ingratitude
every millisecond of this decayed time.

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Yes, I want an apology — and compensation for being an absent father.
Did You raise me?
No, You merely propagated me...
And until nothing disputes it,
until proven otherwise or He claims paternity,
I am the image of my mother.

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And my face is not one of hunger out of convenience,
nor is my colour.
But...
I give, I gave, and I was given nothing in return.
I carry on, maybe.

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Each time I try to be the lamb to slaughter,
the black sheep,
the landowner of “me” sets me free.

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Why do you mock me, oh satirical martyr?
Tell me:
Drink from my goodness
and devour my benevolence
until not a drop of empathy remains
to narrate stories to your selfish hunger
on nights when the stars weep.

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I seek words,
but they bleed onto thought without light.

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And on the cold platter, they serve me the day’s posthumous menu:
Recognition, seasoned with objectivity,
and to drink, the gall of “thank you very much”
(between clenched teeth, for if you add a smile, it costs more).

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But irony, sarcasm and falsehood are plentiful
in tiny service jars on the table —
and worry not,
the “friendly” waiter already adds them to your plate.

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What can I do, right?
I must eat as if there were no tomorrow.
Or until society realises that living
on the margins of others’ reciprocity only segregates.
This was never a matter of choice,
they moulded you into this calculating, cold being
("Limited and calculating
rhymes abstractly with: unarmed and dangerous").

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There are still those who say:
“Tomorrow belongs to God.”
These fakes and conformists...

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I lie down upon the thought that the question echoing
within the sanctified child is:
“What do I truly receive in return for my giving?”

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And He created me in His image and likeness...
Now, if He wills, He should talk to me —
for He owes me many explanations.