I am a book with the front pages torn from its spin. Approaching elderly women and asking if they are my mother.
They push me away and I say, “Home?”
I have no fight left and the bottoms of my feet are dirty, water and mud mixed with blood and torn skin.
He pushed me and asked if I felt empowered.
I pray to God and ask for help. Help me, I didn’t mean for this to happen. Please, there has been a mistake.
But In a familiar silence, God does not answer. My face hot and the tears streaming down, offering no relief.