we carry the weight of unspoken names,
a language stitched into our skin,
each scar telling a story we never finished.
mother’s hands—scarred, soft,
holding history in the cradle of her palms,
whispering forgiveness to the ghosts beneath her nails.
father’s silence—an open wound,
filling the room with things unsaid,
a river that carved canyons in our hearts.
sisters and brothers—
we are fragments of the same broken mirror,
shattered, pieced together with hope and fear.
love in this house is a quiet rebellion,
a hope muttered against the ceiling,
a promise to survive the silence.
we are the children of chaos,
learning to breathe in the spaces between
what was lost and what is yet to be found.
