Truth is . . .

Sitting bathed in pink light, I think about how every moment of anger, painted nail is a constant rebellion, ebbing and flowing as the tide.

The word 'cruel' comes to mind when I think of 'truth'. Aletheia. Sach. Different names, same aftermath. Teeth loose, having released beasts caged in the fold of my throat and doubled neck. The feast is not slow and savage. It is instantaneous and absolute, Light wishes it was as eager and bloodthirsty. The way truth infiltrates and colonises every speck of dust your skin is yet to become, it will not burrow, not dig, but be absorbed. Unify. Unity is often described as a utopian goal in a world torn apart. How is it that becoming only one became such a beautiful thing? To lose boundaries. Co-existence never meant losing a sense of self.

Truth, becoming one with your being, violates every order of it. Reconfigures synapses, rewrites DNA, and suddenly you can't be in the same room as the people who raised you because the truth is, I have been taught that truth and anger follow one another. For telling the truth, I receive my life stripped bare in my trembling palms, knees kneeling. Anger raises the thoughts kept inside, and elicits their anger.

There is no end to this unless one is removed. Death is a stubborn bastard, still no match for a patriarch who bleeds in secret and tells only the grandson who is tired of being a caregiver. Safe haven, responsible son, golden child. Death is a stubborn bastard, still no match for a grandmother who thought a heart attack was just acid bubbling inside.

An implosion waiting to happen.

No match for a mother who lives in denial. For a father who takes years to know any better, hey at least he's trying.

No match for a brother who punched someone for hurling abuses at me. Iron fist and silver tongues, we are the best at what we do.

He weaves worlds, and I'm here, my voice before you, my hands steady. 

Soft,

empty,

antithesis.

My body is a composition of opposites who fit their edges however they can and hey it fits. The body of a bear with the cracking voice of a choirboy beyond his prime, purple nails and hairy forearms, feminine-coded behaviours and a death glare only mothers could dare execute. Anger coming out so often of a body always so ready to hold others tight. Out of a mouth always so ready to say love and I and you. Fist and flowers go together. You need to make one to hold the other.

Aletheia. Truth. Sach. Things you say to yourself in the mirror, to a reflection that exists only in the yellow light that creates solitude when social hell lurks outside the bathroom door. ‘Control’ and ‘Fine’ are words - silk ties and rubber gags binding the agony to your skin. Unity. Another word for hiding. Another word for this is not the time, not the place. Hamein ghar mein shanti rakhni chahiye. We need to keep the peace at home. 

Training starts early.