I have birthed from the shyness of my childhood, but as someone transformed.
has taken me.
I do not devour books – they devour me.
The girl sinks into depression,
she retreats down into her silence.
I am pulled in with her, my feet
Skimming her gray waters unreflecting,
My head immersed in the mist not diffusing.
My heart beats, boom, boom –
I close the book, I cannot continue –
I open the book, I must continue
And then the realization sneaks in and pinches my arm and I find
she was raped.
I cannot know what exactly she felt
In that time of stifled memories and a dam in her throat
Yet empathy is not a mirror of a person’s experiences
Instead, an art of translation.