Is It Too Late
to find meaning
before water surges
into my mouth
before the texture
of your fingers
turns unknown
before the purpose
of dissection evolves
into an excuse to kill
before my palms are
enamored with mimicking
my mother’s tremors
before the sacredness
of throat singing
softly debilitates me
before God offers
another paradise
that is mutilation
What really stayed with me in this poem is how every line feels like a quiet countdown, as if the speaker is trying to hold on to meaning before it slips away.
There’s this sense of drowning emotionally long before any water appears, like the fear is already living inside the body.
The idea of someone’s touch becoming unfamiliar is heartbreaking it hints at loss even before it arrives.
The shift from “dissection” to “an excuse to kill” feels like a moment where understanding turns into violence, and it lands hard.
The fear of inheriting a mother’s tremors adds such a human vulnerability, the kind that comes from watching someone you love fall apart.
Even the sacredness of throat singing becoming debilitating feels like beauty turning into something too heavy to carry.
The poem keeps circling around transformation, but it’s the kind that erases rather than renews.
By the time God appears offering a “new paradise,” it feels more like a threat than a promise, a paradise twisted into something painful.
There’s a quiet terror running through the whole piece, a fear of losing yourself piece by piece.
It left me with the feeling of someone whispering into the dark, wondering if there’s still time to stay whole.
No