Home Sick Home by Emile Whaibeh

Home Sick Home by Emile Whaibeh

 

Why do you look

away

like you’re avoiding

eye-contact

with mirrors

in the dark?

You’re only

scared

because

you see the resemblance

but you cannot bear it.

 

You’re afraid

to look,

for every

accidental

glance turns into

a bloody chess game

and you never

rest

until my king

falls.

 

Aren’t you sick of fighting me

just because we have different colors?

 

I am your equal;

the same blood

flows

through our veins.

I fall

in love,

just like you do

and my heart

breaks

all the same.

 

On Mondays,

I hate

my teachers,

the preachers,

every single creature.

And just like you,

I hate

my boss,

my country,

every scar

on my skin,

 

and I hate that I never found

a home within my own kin.

 

Perhaps you would

understand

the beauty

of a savage

flower

if you knew

what it’s like

to be thrown

into

the wild

for so long,

that you feel

thorns

growing out of your

flesh.

 

Perhaps

if you ever let

your frail body

dance

in the arms of

the September wind,

you’d understand

the urgency.

You say you

wouldn’t touch me

until those spikes

succumb

 

but by the time they do,

I am afraid my petals would perish too.

 

We are a clan,

not a clone,

not a set

of Russian dolls.

I am not

the smaller version

of you

and I will not

be swallowed

by you.

I stand alone

with arms wide open

holding onto the illusion

of a freedom

I never had

but you could see

the truth:

my shadow on the ground

is nothing more

than a cross.

 

so strip me

out of everything

I ever owned,

skin me

alive

then burn me,

you know

I wouldn’t mind.

Reduce me

to ashes

if that’s

all it takes

for you

to see

that your core

is the same

as mine.

 

We had a home, once, before the flood,

until I learned that family isn’t always blood.

 

@2014 Emile Whaibeh



 

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Bio: Emile Whaibeh is a 20 year-old Armenian Lebanese living in Lebanon. He is a pre-med student who is currently in the process of completing his BS in Medical Laboratory Sciences from the University of Balamand. Even though his future plans involve getting into Medical School and becoming a doctor, it never kept him away from writing poetry. Often asked to make a choice between sciences and literature, Emile never understood why a choice should be made. He believes that while sciences help us understand the world around us, poetry helps us create through syllables and words the world we always dreamed of. He also believes in the cathartic power of poetry. Medicine might heal the body; poetry heals the soul.

 
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