Nostalgia is a powerful beast.
It makes me wanna go home to my imminent death and long for my hells.
Through its lenses the arms twisted behind my back is an embrace and it makes me miss the soothing coolness of my fathers' scorching branding iron.
The path that leads to my house is a wooden plank that ends in shark infested waters-their home.
YOU ARE READING
Purple blush
Poetry''Everything you did to me, I remember. Mama, I made it out of your home alive, raised by the voices in my head. '' -Warsan Shire, Extreme girlhood
