Realization

On the day after the war, I had organs and limbs to offer you. I’d give you hands for acknowledgment and legs for support. Build forts made of sweat and tears, letting the blood escape our body. You offered to give up your sight so I could see, but with ignorance like mine, I did not want to believe whatever your eyes were telling me. I am asking you for nothing because that's what you have to offer me. Even when the war’s passed and we’re living days before nights and nights after days, you became the shadow that stopped light from passing by. You became deformed like a bird born without wings, like a child in an environment where rewards were rape and where punishments were bruises. Loss after loss, because you had cried in bed. Your father would walk in the room to find you collapsed on the floor, and whether you were dead or alive, you lived under a shed of never believing you could be loved. Until the day you died I realized what you had to offer was yourself. You could not tell me that sight was what I needed because what I needed was you. With the right number of machetes, we cut through deformations and constant desperations on hopeless frustration. Even if you used the machete to cut through your skin, I offered spare arms after the war. Even if you tore my space and time because I’m trying to climb on a mountain without rocks, you believed you had something up to offer because I had run out of limbs like legs or arms. And even if the separation of transporting organs and ourselves were too far, we found ourselves trying to sell something we never knew we had. Realization.