Up there, where you went to make me a tea of stars
the echo of the wind that sprang from your birthing screams, doesn’t reach
and the timid, see-through me, I thank you, for my existence..
I would have liked you to know that all the women who came after you raised me, not you…
they birthed me a man, you, a child,
and only the longing for that child invokes you
Only you hurt me, because life is a wound
The other women loved me in a different way, but not even one dared
leave me so alone..
up there exists, because there is also a down here where you
keep spilling the tea with your trembling hand, it rains… or maybe, you’re crying
my women admire you, envy you, they would like to birth me..
the last drop, the sun comes out, on…
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