The mother.

Rage. Damage. Screams. Hatred. All silent and silently evolving. All locked up. All hidden inside. Hidden from the outer world. From the fuming, noisy world. From the angry world of busy people. All stacked up into piles in the corners of a round and curvy body. All neatly stocked for a never-ending season of anger. All nurtured by the dullness of a life of deadly routines. All covered up by colourful, fragrant chemicals. All perfectly shaped and arranged into what this world calls a woman.
A woman that boils on the inside, but smiles on the outside. A woman whose soul was sliced into pieces and eaten up. A hollow body whose heartbeat was forcefully replaced by silent screams of suffocating.
A dead yet breathing ghost of a long lost mother.

And she hit the ground.

A push. She was flying. She did not know if it was a dream or if she was really floating in the night sky. But she felt the cold hands on her back, the abrupt push, could hear the screams, feel the dizzyness all over again. And she was flying now for what seemed like eternity. Was she going to die? Was she already dead? Had she ever really lived? She did not know. Her entire life was shattered into pieces. Into tiny slivers of unmatching scenes. Who pushed her down the balcony? Who betrayed her in this very coldhearted way?  Why didn't he confront her? She knew she was going to die now. She knew she would soon hit the ground and turn into a bundle of flesh and broken bones. She knew she was worth nothing, but a headline in some newspaper and an unjust verdict in a corrupt court, now. She knew what they were going to say; that she committed suicide. People are going to judge her. Not even a dead person can rest in this society, she thought. They are going to bury her with enough rumors to keep her awake, even in her grave. She foresaw her social as well as her physical death and was not able to change it. Her mind -crowded with thoughts- said his last farewells to her. She will never be able to finish reading her book again. She will never be able to hug her son again. She was worth nothing, but a memory. And she hit the ground.

I will wait

I will stand alone in the darkness waiting for a sign of a long gone existence. For a dim light that conveys life. I will wait for that split second of breathing. I will wait across the road for any proof of acceptance. For my heartbeat to be acknowledged. I will patiently wait for my thoughts to cling to yours. For my outline to perfectly blend into the night. I will wait for a sparkle of recognition as I cross to the other side. Standing in perfect posture, I will wait for a flicker of tolerance. Just a distant blurry indication of a wish already forgotten. From afar, I will wait for miraculous understanding. For hidden clues. For forewarnings I might have overlooked. I will wait for my declaration of identity; for a yielding agreement on unalienable rights. I will wait for your approach and for your consideration. I will wait for you. Or myself. In the stillness of the night, I will wait for the memory of my abolished self to embed itself into reality.