I feel out of place.
I'm torn between the warmth that floods through my heart when I'm sitting on my grandma's legs and the feeling of unease everytime she speaks to me.
Softly, with more love than a mother.
And I'm ashamed cause I cannot give her a full answer. I'm ashamed cause the foreigner's tongue always finds its way into our most intimate conversations.
I do not feel like myself, I do not feel like I deserve to be called ours,mine,my child.
How can I be your child when I see you die a little everytime I speak? When my body does not fit the clothes that were tailored for it?
No matter how much it wants and tries to?
I wanna grab your tongue and put it in my mouth, or at least tell you that the love you speak with is the same one I hold into my chest. That for that, we speak the same language, and that it does not need to be translated.
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
