Sometimes I wonder what it is like to not hate the place you were born in
To have a home that’s homely
With black and white walls.
To devour the warm soup that your mother made for you
Without worrying when she will throw the plate at you next.
To discover a safe spot in the city where you can smoke
Without worrying about a catcall.
A city where I roam around with my eyes looking for a lover
And not in search of a potential rapist.
A place whose love is not escorted by Guilt.
A place where I can clean the floor without feeling filthy.
Sometimes I feel like my heart has so much to give.
So much capacity to Love.
But this place like a nasty witch just sucks it out of me.
Mixes it with all its ghastly potions and shows me the Blackest side of my love.
Throws my love back at my face in the name of resilience.
I am sick of this place.
I don’t want to survive, I want to live.
I don’t want to gasp for breathe and exclaim relief at my survival, I want to inhale.