Oaht

Yet everybody kills what he loves

Pay attention to what I said

Who does it with one look

With some flattering words

Cowards kill with a kiss

Hearted with sword blows

Who killed him when he was young

Who is old

Who suffocates with lustful hands

Some of their hands of gold

The merciful use a knife

Because dying with a knife cools quickly

Who doesn't like enough

Who loves too much

Who sells and some buys

While some tears are killing

Some without moving a hair

Because everybody kills what you love

but

Because everybody killed

Doesn't die ...

(oscar wilde)

A suicidal passion surrounded my body, though I was just a handful of bones that demanded a thousand witnesses to call the body.

Even though I put the ingenuity of my cowardly self, who is ashamed to look in the mirror, on my timid eyes, I look timidly while combing my hair, my pale skin enveloping the outside of my body.

My eyeballs are very large, I dive into the dark purple circles around my eyes, as my fingers move around my face involuntarily, that giant dragon wakes up somewhere in me and roars with hot fires when the flames reach that black hole in my brain and my ears begin to hum that smell.

The smell of death is so strange ...!

Perhaps all the dead in that cemetery where my mother dragged me in my childhood have felt the same smell.

Just as my brain accords with that scent that I inhabit with every breath, everyone has dared to be unknown in a state of intoxication and fearlessly stepped into the void ..

Inebriation….!

After drinking the red liquid from the wine bottle that my father held tightly in his hand, he stared at my mother.

I recognized her hate after she vomited, saying "Do you know, woman, I will kill you one day too with my own hands and with my motherfucking father."

When my father came home with a bottle in hand, the calm and desolate man who normally never spoke would turn into a monster and beat my mother until he knocked out.

My mother used to curse my grandfather while begging with his groan, which was mixed with the bumps on his body.

I always think about why my father punched the poor woman like a sledgehammer, and all the curses were not on my father but on his father….

Ahhh my mother ahh ...

Maybe he couldn't protect himself from his despair, but stopped because he didn't have the power to protect us ...

He did not know that love was the greatest courage.

Although I had learned this in a very interesting way in my life, that knowledge that I will never ever forget taught me what courage is rather than what strength is to survive.

I hate my mother when I think of the red-haired chick who effected on how many large dogs she had to protect her young in the barn adjacent to our adobe house.

After burying his babies in the hay, that chicken, defying death, sprinkled salt on the wound in my heart and branded it.

My mom and dad are my unhealed but not bleeding wounds ... it is unknown how long it will bleed

It was the second summer of our departure from the village, even though I found out too late why we left

everything hurriedly and settled in a secluded hut that we never knew, I still can't help but think that if we didn't leave our village, maybe we wouldn't have recognized that demon favor, maybe yes, I would have finished my school as in my dreams.

They say that "fate is written before a man is born."

I do not believe, since the thing called fate is in love with effort, I will not sit down and submit to my destiny.

I swear Afife that I will ask whoever left my childhood in tears one by one to account, this will be my only vow and endless cause.

Nobody's hands will be shackled, not going to jail, but what matters is the prison of the heart, isn't it the punishment of the conscience?

Unless you can untie the knot stuck in your throat with every bite you eat, unless you remove the weight that lands on your chest with every breath you take, what good is it if you are in a soul.

Nobody thinks I'm alive

I will not enter the prison of those who are condemned in their conscience