The Pain That Wrote Me

Shamoon Rasool

Those who trafficked in my blood, you drank my tears like fermented poison, devoured my silence, reckoned my trembling hands as your currency.

You presumed suffering could be quantified, that agony had a ledger, that a childhood incinerated was merely a line itam in your book of dominion.

But anguish is not a commodity. It is the prism through which existence fractures and refracts, revealing the hidden architecture of cruelty, the geometry of absence, the calculus of neglect.

I am Shamoon. Not a tally. Not a coin. lam the archivist of my own torment, the survivor of a world that sought to efface me.

Every scar you endeavored to erase became a coordinate in my atlas of survival. Every wound you etched became an inquiry I had to answer: Who am I when the cosmos itself seemed intent on undoing me?

Sorrow became my mentor, silence my oracle. The darkness you poured upon me revealed the weight of being, the stubborn insistence of consciousness, and the necessity of witnessing oneself.

My very essence shall standas testament to your tyranny, my identity shall rise as exemplar; proof that survival can transmute into legend, that what was meant to annihilate me only forged me anew.

lam every scar, every lament, every purloined dream-lam The Pain That Wrote Me.