You wake up: Half Past five.
All of a sudden you feel like shit.
You don’t want to write strings of carefully arranged words anymore.
You want to write out how you feel with the wires constantly poking under and into your rib cage and how hearts aren’t wild creatures but mere pups that need a home.
Maybe all you needed right now was your mother’s touch or the warmth of her lap but she isn’t there.
You reconcile that maybe it is the diaspora but your mother’s gone and so is your home.
All those words about walking back home don’t mean shit to you anymore, do they?
I need you mom, I’m just 19!
