POVERTY'S GROSTEQUE RING OF VIOLENCE
The scent of cold winds on the harsh, high plateau and on our house have a thing in common: the longing for a loving touch.
My mother once lived within mountains... suffered emptiness.
She hugged a blanket of the night with chilling breeze and survived alone...
Now she's in her thirties and has a son; Me, old enough to realize pain and understand hate.
When I was ONE, hospitals became my home... I had colds, diarrhea and often I fell, cut myself and swallowed objects like magicians did because my mother didn't bother to care.
I slept, ate and played on the floor
I reached TWO I forced myself to take a shower on my own
I lived with a cellphone next to me so I could phone her when I awake.
At THREE I know how to make myself a milk and kick myself out of the house so I could beg food from peers because nothing was left for me to eat.
I never refuse to learn from anyone... though my mother often shouts at me, spanks me...treated me wildly at home.
Exceptional.... that was she. Why is that?
My mother who is now holding a university degree learnt to live in solitude, known no loving touch of a mother's love.
Maybe that's why she never loved me... comforted me...
but I am her son and I longed to hug her tight; She is my mom.