by Jenn Ngeth
You take a light; that blistering flame
to the tip of my head––
the start to my demise.
The countless ashes of my kin succumb
to your prayers; sacrificed for the absence of holy statues––
mythology turned into worship.
As I’m propped in rice grains, burning,
in my soon-to-be coffin; I permeate into the air––
transpiring your wishes to made-up entities.
As if the windpipes in your esophagus
were created by gods
& not from the action of human fucking.