I haven't slept for two days now. The nights pass by slowly as I am in deep thought, my grandmother’s radio plays at full volume in the other room, and my parents and uncle talk loudly into the ears of their loved ones an ocean away.
I hear my father tell his brother to search for his son among the bodies of the dead, I hear my mother asking for the latest news and picture her standing there holding her breathe as she listens to the tired frantic voice of the person on the other end of the line, and I play the scene over and over again where my grandmother walks slowly into my room, with a back, hunched because of years of hard labor. She stares at me with a wrinkled face and a look in her eyes that I recall seeing only a few times but only when she speaks of her past, during the rough times.
She asks me if I know what's going on, and I tell her yes. Then she begins to summarize anyways, speaking in a lowered voice so that is just above a whisper enunciating each word clearly and I understand despite the usual misunderstandings between me and her, I nod my head, and release noises known worldwide to reassure someone who is speaking that the audience is listening.
And as her words become separated by seconds that tell stories in themselves, and that look in her eyes, she says in a grave voice and in a language that seems so familiar yet foreign, “chi we dak, chi we dak” then she turns around and walks out of the room in the same fashion in which she came in.
I ponder her words as I sit there.
“The world has broken, the world has broken.”

1: My face is disproportional to the rest of me
It looks so uncomfortable sitting on my shoulders
Like it's a holder for the weight of the world

#2: My eyes show too much expression
They cannot lie
Even in moments of severe desperation
When lying that no, I am not about to cry

#3: My words are always awkward
Especially when spoken
They convey the notion of stupidity
When that's not true in reality

#4: My inability to cope with any stressful circumstance
Always retreating
Always receding
Instead of seeking out help

#5: My self hate
My inability to love who I am
The constant wish that I was someone
Who can
Love themselves with their entire heart
And not be dragged into this never ending dark
Of despising yourself
But blaming everyone else

Growing up, I watched my mother leave a man she married too young. My father, in his grief, traded tears for beer and a marked ring finger for a string of women. I swore there and then I would never believe in happiness.

Growing up, I watched as my mother’s boyfriend hit my younger brother, careful to leave bruises only where cloth covered up skin. I watched as my mother watched: silently, and never raising a finger. But I was the better person, I think: I was waiting my turn. I swore there and then that I would never trust anyone, not even family.

Growing up, I watched my older siblings stumble through the pitfalls of teen life: they fall out of love as quickly as they fell in, and rebelled against anyone who dared presume authority over their lives. I watched as they sought the attention our parents could not give: from strangers, no less. I swore there and then that I would never need or want of anything from anyone.

Sprinkles of golden dust frame those months.
Your delicate fingers.
Endless, strawberry kissed rainfall.
City lights drowned in a star tinted mist.
Cinnamon secrets.
Freedom soaring beside your wind tussled hair.
Honey flavoured kisses.
Sand powdered clothes and sun bleached love that faded too fast.
But that's just it:
It faded. And now there's nothing left.