Upon my death tell my mother that I still do not know how to word my apologies. Let her know that I can’t apologize for growing too large for the cage I was born in. Tell her my wings were burdened by the expectation to stay grounded when all they wanted to do was leave. That the staying made me bitter and the mundanity of it all made me spiteful. Tell her I’m sorry I was made of clay that couldn’t be molded, I know my rage scared her. It scared me too. Tell her I’m sorry she couldn’t shield me from myself, I’m sorry I got scorched playing with flames she had warned me against. Most days I was the flames I was warned against. I have learned that there are those who are and those who aren’t, those who welcome the familiar and those who crave the unknown. Tell her I’m sorry I fell into the latter. Tell her I grew up feeling too much and now I can feel nothing at all. Tell her I don’t recall when the walls came up or why they were so adamant on keeping everyone out. Tell her I didn’t feel lonely behind them. Tell her I’ve made a home out of the trauma and a bed out of the discomfort; I feared nothing but myself. Tell her I don’t know how my edges grew to be so sharp, but I still loved the only way I knew how. Tell her I know she loved me the only way she knew how and I can only hope she forgives me. Tell her I regret nothing and everything.
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TEXT:
AISHA
UNITED ARAB EMIRATES