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Through My Mother's Eyes

I was quite eager to tell how my mother breaks me everytime she stresses about how young I am to look sick.

For illnesses are only for the old men seeking their wives' warmth and the wives' washed lavender-scented bed sheets prepared by their most-loved spouses.

But, I am an old man made to reciprocate their duties, and a juvenile for a true care.

A ghost in a sunny day, tamed by legends, besieged with loads, more likely to be told with an absurd tone.


Woman, the pain is in the untasted bread after the fight, the unheard screeches of my echoing scars at night.

The pain is in the cotton that holds my wounds, and I cannot carry my reasons to hold you.

My mother, the light scares me more than you secretly peek from the sharp knives that cut my skin,

My mother, they say forgiveness cannot be seen but felt,

and I will always try to see you with your wings, and I will feel you through your words that slit.


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