Our Worlds

Behold dear one, look closely.

I am different from everyone you had known up till the moment

you asked for the name my parents had given their first born;

and so I will always be.

There is a curse bestowed upon my birthplace;

hence the cursed stigma of the first land we set foot upon

will always mark my kind.

The wretched bane of our lives shall never be lifted;

by no means and at no one's hands;

not matter how many worlds we pass through.

I have entered your world quite a while ago;

have been looking around,

exploring in every direction to which your eyes were turning.

And yet, you have stayed out of mine.

I come from the cursed pavements,

lying next to streets with the stench of death and demise,

to which flora and fauna have fallen over the years.

My world, though, I built around the warm hands holding on to mines;

the warm hands I will always hold on to,

until my birthplace is consumed by the curse and nothing is left.

You, dear one, would never know the colour of my yearnings,

the depth of my sorrow,

where my anger runs its ever growing roots

or the synapses of my pain.

So stay right where you are standing now,

avoiding my world, avoiding the scent of blood,

avoiding the cries of pain and devastation.

Stand firm and stay safe

for the next step in my direction might drag you into a curse no one can break.