Howl for Justice
I reach the small kitchen, and my hands are unsteady, unsteady as I pour, unsteady as the rain, unsteady as my heart, unsteady as me, as me.
The sound of the storm fills the space, fills the air, fills my mind. I wait for it to stop, wait for it to change, wait for it to let up, wait for it to hold up, hold up. But it doesn’t. It keeps me trapped, keeps me trapped, keeps me trapped with the memory, with the memory of him, with the memory of them.
“What are you?”
I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know how to be this woman. I don’t know how to be this person. I don’t know how to be this exposed. I don’t know how to be.
Bab Populer