LAMB FOR YOUR GALLERY
- 2 days ago
- 1 min read
By Sarai Nichole
She told me to write—a cure in a tidy sentence.
Not that the corners of my bedroom ever learned to leave.
I learned to be an artist by accident: a body stitched together
by wars no one visits. They drink from our blood like ritual,
no pity for the open casket as colour thins from my veins.
I do not brew tea to begin. I do not stroke a sleeping cat.
I pace until there is nothing left of me on the shelves,
then choose the floor because the bed remembers my spillage.
My nails find scar-tongues, dig in; bile answers with old sins
that crawled out from my spine. How much more must I offer?
My mother asks for three business days before she reads me.
A week for my grandfather’s name—her caution a veil.
These are not pages. These are pieces of me excised, salted, boxed.
I am the lamb in your gallery: praised as masterpiece, quietly rotting.
Look if you must—do not retch. This is my wound asking for ovation.