That day you gave birth, you kept reminding me how painful it was, as if pain were a debt I had to repay by becoming who you wanted me to be. But every day, you struck me with bleeding words. Their cuts refused to fade, because every hour I wondered why being a child trapped me in human feelings, just because you owned a womb. Why didn’t I turn blue the moment breath met the world, so the ache could stop becoming a long-term wound, so your blows wouldn’t grow into my eternal despair? I would rather become everlasting inside the ashes you keep— ashes whose dust refuses to come near you. Do not scatter me into the open sea; I am afraid of being mocked, for your love is not as wide as it claims to be. You are not meant to be an ocean. Your waters are not clear, nor are they calm. Perhaps you were not the right person. Perhaps fate misplaced me. Perhaps God was punishing someone— me, or you. Whatever the reason… the suffering has already learned how to stay.