Sometimes I feel we are woven from the same piece of cloth, battered old and always removing the stains from the scarlet fibers that runs inside of us entangled by those intricate patterns that it is hard to remove what they bind together, the love passion and emotions. The ragged fabrics are made of scars, millions of them, some physical and most imaginary, every one of which have a magical realism attached to it.
After twenty-six years of suffocating my lungs, I know what burns inside today. Just like you felt it for the thrifty two years that sums up with my twenty-six. Maybe we were born this way, so as to pass on this intense agony with a smile which we knew was never ours.
Growing up, in those dark places with the burns of cigarettes on my hand and the scar of knife wound on my neck I have learned the way you felt, once the petals of your life had already fallen on the tomb of the living corpse you were. Even on somedays I have wondered, wasn’t it your responsibility to live a little more, and whisper into my ears, “It pains more on the insides than what you feel outside.”?
And once, when I asked you for the reason in my dream, you gave one of your charming smiles before dissolving into my melancholy. Thus, with each passing day, I have loved you a little less, hardly being aware that, I am carrying you inside out.
On summer nights, when I am left alone, the darkness prey for me from all directions, I long for your protection, I long for the love you never gave, I long for you to sit beside me holding my hand, smiling one of those abandoned smiles, and among all these longings I find myself whispering,
“If you give birth, you have the right to be a mother?”
Perhaps flinching a little too much at the last word.