Generations open up inside me. I inherited the casualties of battles I didn’t fight. Scars served on a silver platter with a flame masquerading as good. Women and men before me, their stories untold. Ancestral echoes passed down, a flickering light. Flames blew out without promise. Broken birthday wishes. There’s darkness in the distance but in reality, distance is an illusion. Your shadows follow you everywhere, they’re right behind you like the generations before you. Trauma echoes, a legacy upheld by gifted chains on our wrists. They say your wounds are where the light enters but these wounds aren’t mine. I didn’t ask for them but still, they are stitched into my being.
There’s so much I need to let go of. These scars are born from wounds that were never mine, but their rebirth ends with me.
Sincerely,
Bushra Khan.
