Instructions on how to peel a pomegranate perfectly

When my parents are angry I cant hear them.

They are in the next room,the door is open.

Yet I cant hear them.

their voices arent low, my ears work perfect.

Yet I cant understand what they’re talking about.

It’s like a foreign show without subtitles.

I can understand a little by their tone and sighs.

Yet I cant gasp the words. As if they’re talking in a language I dont understand.

It reliefs me I cant hear what they’re talking about!

It reliefs me that I have become deaf to their voice.

For if, someday they remember an interesting topic and they decide to talk abt the incompetent mess that lives within them.

A mess that have been blessed

A mess that pretends to be human everyday.

A mess that cant even understand their words

It would infuriate them to know I have gotten that deaf to their words

that they cant pierce me through their words anymore.

It would infuriate them to the point they cant bear it.

Now they can only hurt me physically and that is bound to leave marks.

And then they cant pretend to be pure saints

When the tears refuse to be just tears and take the appearance of blood

Such aggressive and justice loving are my tears!

Perhaps that’s why I dont let them know!

Let them know that I have been blessed.

For, blessed is the deafness that saves me from their voices.

Blessed are the punishments that leave their hands marked.

And I dont let them know that I cant hear their voices.

That I look at their tone and guess based on that.

But still guessing too shall be difficult when it’s solely based on tones and sighs.

Yet it’s not difficult to me.

For I know their words.

As much as I want to forget them

they are embedded deep in my skin.

Which will stay there until I decide to unskin myself.

To slowly peel my skin off like peeling a ripe pomegranate.

When just like a pomegranate red juices shall purify my body!

Only then those words can be wiped off.

My skin would not look the same.

When I peel my skin off and take the shred of my clothes to wipe the words away.

when the shreds has been soaked in only blood.

they question the disappearance of words,

and they announce me a liar.

But little do they know it was my veins through which those words flow.

And like a waterfall when the blood would be flowing through me!

When I would stand there without my skin

then I shall smile at the world looking ridiculous

and they’ll call me mad and they’ll call me cursed.

A cursed madwoman that walks with her skin peeled, smiling.

Yet they dare not to look me in the eye.

Yet they dare not to laugh at me, for they fear me!

But they dont know my delight and pleasure.

They dont understand my delight.

That my tears dont have to sacrifice their pureness and their salts

just to take up the filthy red color.

My tears are free to be just tears.

Now that there isn’t shortage of blood.

For I have given my blood permission to go wild

and ruin every spot I set foot in.

They call me mad for they don’t know my pleasure.

That now I am deaf and peeled.

I shall approach my family with a smile.

And when their words wont save them

and they’ll push me out the door in fear

and their hands will be covered with blood.

Blood that wont wash up.