It’s September 21st.
I turned 21 on the 10th.
This is my tribute to my father, Sarkis Mujukian, the youngest of seven siblings, who died seven days from my birthday, seven years ago.
– – – – – – –
Seven days Seven years
Seven years yesterday, I walked into that dark room your body lay
to say goodbye, felt your cheek, checked your beat
beat your chest, ran, screamed… dad, is dead.
Machine operated man. Pain no morphine could kill. Scars no creams can mask
Seven days before I turned fourteen.
You snatched one third of my soul when you crossed.
With tombs instead of balloons I can never
smell the roses without remembering frozen, glued bodies,
The only body whose told me I am good enough to be here.
Did you see your soul leave your body as sirens sounded
See the spirits you left behind
Or See the nights of glass shattering fights like Mama only saw
herself at the bottom of every bottle
Dad, I am not love sick, just think that love is shit.
Asoomen Allahu Akbar
Mamas asooma Anasooni Meka
Lachari Lakoti Meka
That I, I am the daughter of a jackass.
Never been hugged, want to fuck me I’ll fuck your teeth up.
I was so angry.
Each exhale was a stale stain
that said you’re dead. you’re gone.
I pour a whisper for myself
to remind us of the bitterness
of being born to die, you and I,
How are you gone if you live in my head?
Now it’s just me, been too weak
Watch the weeks die on my desk
rest your poor mind.
I could lie to psychiatrists
Better than I could lie to myself.
Wore sweaters to hide the
paintings on my wrists but today i bind my chest to hide
I am always hiding
Finding new bodies to jump into that will love me
Seven years it’s felt like self love is a war
But today, it is done.
Seven days ago I left a cigarette and a fig on your katchkar stone
And smeared it’s seeds, killed the grey and gold, life is in color again.
But it is still messy
Your death left seven seeds
to love myself
Fight the devils in my body you died in
I was your daughter but today
I am your son
I am 21.
I don’t know if you can hear me,
give me your hand.
Paint in oils of the land you fled
To come here
Tonight, I will pour myself
a legal glass of two dollar wine
With open eyes
And remember the parts of you that have bled into parts of me
That my Armenia did not die with you inside of you
Time to move and do, to dream
I am staying here tonight.
The end of you will be the beginning of me.