When they ask me who’s the luckiest, I will tell them it’s the mothers, for the mother has a capacity to love far greater than the others. If she has a son, it will be the last man she ever falls for with her soul, and if she has a daughter, she’ll give her everything she ever needed for her own console. They go through so much trying to raise us and they push us forward when we cry, and they cry more, but in secret, while they praise us once their face is dry. The love they have for us is unbreakable, even thought sometimes we break them. We claim they overstep the walls of our boundaries even though we overstretch the walls of their womb to give us life. And so she pretends to not be hurt, to be respectful of what we think we need, and gives us the room to grow, but the mother is the luckiest, and she says, “One day they will know”.
(Havva Ramadan)
How little did I know that when I met you, you were already at war with yourself and the demons that were swimming in the waters beneath your soul. You’d hidden all your scars so well that at first I honestly didn’t see it. Eventually, there I stood with you … side by side on the front lines against a Molotov cocktail of monsters we never saw coming, but also very much did. While I suppose I could say that my kids and I became the collateral damage of your internalized emotional warfare, I cannot. We were casualties of something far worse: “Her“.
I’m sorry, Zachariah, that on the day you were delivered to that THING, you were actually delivered into the living hell on Earth that can become a human soul that wasn’t lucky enough “to know” the true capacity of the love far greater than others that was supposed to be “her”. Instead, what “you knew” was the brokenness of not having a mother who gave everything for your console that was lain in your remains.
The Diary Of My Perfection 
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