I write to you, Father.
under the weight of my hunger,
the dark circles beneath my eyes.
A map of the nights,
I’ve lived without a name for peace.
Today, the world is a cold knife,
sharp and unrelenting.
God gave me life,
but life is a cruel companion,
like a storm that does not break,
but winds tighter and tighter
around the heart.
Heroes, Father,
are only figures made of dust and ink,
their strength lies in stories,
told in a thousand tongues
but never heard by the hungry.
Never felt by the bones,
that ache for something more,
than the hollow promises of men.
We speak of goodness
like sugar in the morning light,
but it melts in the heat of living.
You read the newspaper,
but I taste only the bitterness of the words
that spill from it.
And still,
the night comes.
The gnashing of teeth
is louder than silence,
and I am here,
waiting for the dawn
to give me something
I can hold in my hands.
This is the world, Father.
A life where hunger is a song,
where darkness is the only companion,
and the weight of being
is too heavy to bear.
But I carry it—
this unbearable weight,
and I ask,
who will weep for me,
who will see the dark circles
beneath my eyes
and say, you are not alone?
