What does a woman do when she’s too tired to turn up the corners of her mouth? She turns them up again. Because her smile is all she has to remind her of her strength, of her courage, of her hunger for life.
Life. It eats her, yet she eats it, mouthful by bitter mouthful, swallowing hard and promising herself that she won’t die till she’s digested every wretched morsel.
Wretched morsel. She cannot forget, though she always tries to – her pain, her brokenness, her scars, her inner tears. She wears them like tattoos on her organs where men and women cannot tell that she is living phenomenally everyday – beyond what should be doable.
Doable. She does; she cries in the toilet. She does; she weeps at the bus stop. She does; any excuse to run an errand far from ignorant eyes so that she can release her stifled cries like vomit behind the tree of the nearest park.