I wish i could lay under a telescope and let them study me, to strip down my bones and maybe then my mother would understand why my vocal cords traveled from my throat down to my hands. Maybe then will she smile when i scratch my face, because that’s my way of telling her i missed her, and that i’m tired of being close to my enemy.
I try to spell her name, but my hand shivers from the beginning, and I end up leaving her with a cold letter that doesn’t belong to a martyr who spent 30 years bleeding. She tries to get close to me, but i crawl back and glue my body to the wall. She’s crying and i’m scratching my face till it bleeds.
Mom, Can you hold my hand without asking me why my veins take the shape of your silhouette?
Can you take me back home and let me sleep without checking my heartbeat every 20 seconds?
Can you disarm me when the weapon is my hand?
Can you sit 10 meters away from me, and still keep an eye on me?
Can you read me a bedtime story that doesn’t end with me trying to convince you that i am not a caged bird?
Can you smile for me?
Can you keep the coffin open on nights when my skin craves the bedbugs you pray away?
Mom, pity the disease for choosing a body of a voyager, and feel sorry for the people who were waiting for my heroic story.