The Hiding Spot

I have nails bitten down to the skin I have arms scratched until they bleed I have a frown, settled on my face and a fog that covers my eyes I have restless legs and I would cry screaming if I try to stay still until they rest I have a chest closed in and a back bent like a convex trying to protect my heart that carries the pain of years and generations I have a body made from fear and a head full of worry I have all my mothers to thank for that, they shouldered all that they have to bring me out in this world so loud and scary that my body is weary from pretending to stand still and smile to have my chest up and open like I am brave enough to love and live but meanwhile my head is full, my head is heavy my nails and my skin are bleeding my face is drawn into so many little areas of worry and my eyes are hiding a pain my shoulders can no longer carry.

Some feel the pain of their ancestors I do, too. Well, kind of. I feel the pain, that's true but not so long back. I feel the pain of my grandmother,  who was given away to the village on the mountain across,  to serve a man,  to give birth to men, to be ruled by the mother of the man, to be worked so relentlessly,  that her back broke,  and her soul, her eyes fixed on the mountain across longing for what was once home.  still they buried her on the wrong mountain and said she's at least now home.  I feel the pain of my grandmother who never learned to read anything else than the Kuran that kept her half sane never learned how to write anything other than her name and that from her grandchildren aged ten who didn't understand there was a limit and taught her the whole summer everything they can. I feel the pain of my grandmother who worked in the fields of corn, potatoes, and cabbage and kept her home who cooked, cleaned, and cared for all the six men ...

I feel alone. I feel even more in crowds. I feel like there isn't much I can give, and all I need is to take.  I feel no interest, I feel no strength to ask, just existing, and watching the people in awe asking each other questions desperately wanting to connect and to share with anyone who listens. I feel like I have to listen to so many voices in my head already, that I have no ear left for anyone else,  and I've not even ever asked. I feel so tired, and I feel like everyone sees it, my face literally shapeshifts with sadness,  but somehow no one asks. How come no one asks? I feel alone in the crowds,  more than I've ever felt. I feel alone in these crowds, looking at them and feeling invisible talking to them and feeling unhearable. I open my mouth and all these screams are coming out,  yet no one hears a thing. How come no one hears? I feel alone in the sea of happy chit-chats of the crowd, the crowd, that once was family, the crowd once I cared about, the c...