Wealthy threads of privilege woven with the fabric of guilt
Futile, merciless days go by as the shrouds get built
Enough money to sustain life behind the door
Not enough to step out of the threshold
Enough privilege to be in constant sight of the world through its virtual realms
Not enough to stretch my hand, and hold another’s, across the glass screens
Enough guilt to drown in sorrow for those with bloodied feet after a million steps, and for those gasping for their last breaths
Not enough to stop (selfishly) longing for nights blanketed under blissful ignorance when we met
Two decades old yet not big enough to outgrow my father’s lap
Two decades old yet not smart enough to stop falling for sweet, sweet musings descending to a trap
Every fiber of my body wants to tell you all these stories, and more
Only if my hands were never handcuffed with this linguistic incompetency that my third language bore..