Toxicity in my child’s heart

I was raised in a circle of dust; while many heads came to interrupt my mum as she gave me advices in spoons of hope; where do I see my daughter? She asked herself everytime she took me to her fearful imagination, or simply to school. White and pure as ever she was, with wrinkles in tire seemed to block her breath as they were sculpted in holes you find in her face, or you could find a couple of years ago before she left her bed with departed pillows. But for now I assume she didn’t stop worrying. Despite my small knowledge about what happened to carcasses as we leave them for the earth’s advantage. So what could my hands do for that? I was too small but in the conflict with death I was even smaller.

Maybe it’s some raindrops power, or a couple of cartridges crossed my body when I couldn’t see or bleed. Life was tough, it got tougher and tougher each time a person like me recalled how they were born suddenly as leaves fell from the skyline wandering if a shelter would embrace their broken parts or a kid would enjoy crashing them off the floor, with no electricity. Then the only clean water was splet from the eyes of the kind. No, I had it in my brain logically persisted for a fair period of my stare as the world conjoined to count its seconds. It was faith that existed in your red plate of veins solely did destiny emphasize it. Slowly as you survived your life out. All I knew afterwards was that, my daughter shouldn’t think this way. My daughter didn’t have to, my daughter wasn’t demanded to hear my deserted stories either.

For me I didnt stop worrying about her too. Daughters were a source of worry to their mothers since they saw them playing with dolls in childhood, and as they had been drowning in problems from their teenage to their early adulthood. The patience they had for almost everything corrupting their happiness zone, their silent mouths as they drove to the ceiling of sadness, or for the love they gave unconsciously. We thought they wouldn’t let themselves be as tough as critical circumstances were, which reasoned problems to all attendees, even to those guests who stood far, watched and spoke in teary delusions aiming to sort a change out or originate solutions. Even if my daughter was offered a better life than mine, I didn’t have the brave heart to share that non addressed thought, what if and what if? I couldn’t run from wind storms inside a caring brain. So I saw how crazy personalities became, and how dark a cloud could be above me, or how fake labeled influencers were. I saw them smiling to mention their donations for people like me, or their splendid achievements across the globe to stop “terror” in papers and speeches that hadn’t seen an action. Since when? I learned else things from a lagging teacher. I learned a fictitious idiom known only in books as peace, more like an expression that only went to a few parts of this wide place. Where?

I immigrated while lips were lazy to draw movements. And my daughter, who saw a soul in a doll, was sure life was shining with colored frustrations and loyalties. Would she get to my age as a modest wordsmith? Would she write the same letters with the same feeling of oppression? Where do I see my daughter?


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