Gali

I will kneel on broken glass as 

my blood stains the pearly sheen so that 

you will see I've resorted to my last option: begging 

before you (as a woman should be) to rip 

He doesn’t look at me
Like I look at him
I know exactly what he does at recess
Where he eats lunch
His middle name
I know what books he likes
What video games
I’ve slept in the same room with him

Democracy isn’t a mother 
who shields you from the storm;  
it’s the ghost of a father 
who leaves when the lights flicker,  
and promises turn to dust 
in his palms. 

Two doors, both locked, neither mine.
Two names, one I gave up.
Two voices, both demanding I choose.
A home is a shelter. A home is a question.

There’s this song,

Slipping Through My Fingers.

By ABBA. From Mamma Mia!

That's how I see it.

Our rights.

“I try to capture every minute.”

It’s only been a few days and sadness feels so far away

This feeling, it isn’t salvation

The girl who used to scream for others pains is shut out

She fights to be free, to make me suffer for something I don’t feel nor control