mother.

 father, your warmth burns my wings. you name it humility, I call it restraint

 The women in my house learnt to bury their graves with their fidelity. They smell of death and misery.

 I have died a hundred deaths, my mother a thousand. Perhaps these are the deaths women die every day before they're truly dead. my mother's love faded through the ends of time, she lost herself and became a graven statuette of an ideal woman. There are times she lets me in, where her nostalgia has built its own cities and towns, where the day no longer breaks and the night never settles. I look for my mother but instead, I find only a mirror. tired and trembling. lost in uncharted destinies and beggings of belief. who were you mother before you birthed me? before your heart made mine? before your split yourself open for another?

women are their mother's daughters with smiles that unfold revolutions and end wars. 

~Who was your mother before she was your mother? 

- Arshia