A battered soul erects fences
to guard its still pulsating wounds
from eyes that pry for its fragility;
from lips that speak of plastic barbie cars and real-life soap operas
from a tongue that derides people’s most minute gaffes ;
and from a heart under the illusion of a peach-colored veil.
Sometimes, a soul dies too many a times
before it bolts out
of a slumber that has just been unconscious
When that soul wakes up,
it will know that the monster may not be under its bed
that the eyes will squint at the not-too-brittle fences;
that the lips will continue to utter the same litany but now with hints of suspicion
that the tongue will lick away the indelible stain and finds out it can’t;
and that the heart will show shreds of carmine slabs of odium.
Sometimes, when a soul dies,
it does not become a ghost, but it becomes more alive.
Those that prey on it
will forever hunger for its