haadi

i am the child left with grief, enough to write books on not enough to take love by my heart before mine, i so read much and write sometimes but i may ask who, for this? the one who birthed me? or the one who birthed them all?

i wonder if love is supposed to save me when it has only ever left me lost. i wonder if silence is violence when it is the only thing love ever gives back. and i wonder if love is staying in a burning house because the flames remind you of warmth.

The kitchen remembers every woman who swallowed her anger to keep the food warm.

mother, when i die— will my room stay the same or will you finally open the windows and let me leave? tell me, mother—how long does a child stay in a house after his death?

Mother, i think i have been waiting to be understood in the same way you were never understood. Tell me mother—will you listen to me if i speak to you?