dear home

          I know we're not a normal family, we don't live under one roof, waking up at the crack of dawn, eating a plateful of sunny-side eggs made with the warmth of our mothers and sizzling-hot, sputtering bacon. we don't wake up with smiles and "good mornings", we learn to wake up without expecting our windows open and without birds singing their hearts out while the sun is on the horizon. We awaken with the burden of wondering if this day will be our last, asking ourselves “is today it? Will I be relieved from this pain called life?” Everyday we’re reminded that our brains are a sin, our hearts are accomplices in this crime. The crime of loving, the crime of giving. Giving to our own. Secret whispers and rushed looks, scrambling for the lips of those we adore, questioning our own very existence. Begging the all-merciful to end our misery of a life because we know down the line it’ll break our mothers and fathers. We were barely children when we realized that we’d rather have our last breath than break our parents’ pride. Our parents’ dignity is gold to them. Shining, expensive gold. Refined necklaces, gently placed on their necks, laced with deep jade. Rings with wine-red rubies glistening in the sun. Their pride is their crown and their knife. It can seem impossible to be them, to do what they do. To sacrifice every once of happiness for children who crush their ego into dust, but also pride makes them bleed. It creates an illusion, and that poisonous fairytale slowly drips down their throat. Feeding them bittersweet nothings, indulging their fantasies. Handing them what they want on a mercury platter, slowly but surely killing them. Our last breath ends in agony while theirs ends in longing. Longing for the kids of their imagination, the kids that held glory above everything else. The kids who basked in the rays of pretentiousness, and showered themselves in the opinions of other people. Their murmurs and the buzz is a high that our parents will never come down from.