12:13 a.m.
monday morn —
bedroom parlour
***
the world is a game,
girl. the words of my
mother. somehow —
she didn't show her
affection through
i love you's, heart
to heart talks and
late night movies.
she showed it
through the slaps
that echoed
in the hallways,
forever stamped
on my face.
the harsh words
she spouted. and
the worst part is
that i'm glad to
have her as my
mother.
because she
showed the truth.
showed the shackles
she have. too heavy
to carry — she was
vulnerable.
is vulnerable.
she didn't stop
me from dreaming.
just warned me
about life. she
loves me too much
that she would even
choke me on my
sleep and put drugs
on my meals.
she would even kill
me just to save me
from the burden i
have to carry when
i'm older. from
the shackles.
the world is a game —
"and everyone needs
to play it." - mother
oh! mother,
if only you knew —
that you can make
your own game.
***
YOU ARE READING
Our Vintage Dance on the Phonograph
Poesía"you and - me, we traversed at the eve of the colossal pages of our bedroom balcony." - excerpt there is no other dancing partner i would dance with other than you, my sun. you bring me to places that are wiped out of history - to the gardens of rui...
