I see a staircase leading to the stars; to his bedroom upstairs.
For far too long, we have been locked by poverty and war.
Between the bombings in Damascus to the backstreets of Beirut.
My father rents this dwelling; a garage where we exist.
I will be his bride tomorrow. Is this escape or another prison?
Probably it’s both.
I remember red stains on white shirts. Once from pomegranates then from blood.
Once I was a princess, now I am commodity.
Once I went to school.
I am sixteen and he is forty three. I will be his second wife.
I listened to a documentary in Swedish radio the other day about a family from Damascus fleeing for Lebanon where they had to rent a place in a garage. All the girls married, without luck. I just tried to imagine how it can be, but probably could just imagine part of it. Also check out some info here
Rochelle guides us each week in the process of writing our own fiction in hundred words to the same picture. We are Friday Fictioneers. Many many great stories each week.
I also link up to dVerse Open Link tonight, any one poem is welcome.
January 24, 2018