by leila issara
it's almost dawn, and i'm sitting on the roof with my father, listening to the athan, drowning in the darkness and forcing a bond weaker than a child's hands.
it's cold for a summer night, it almost feels real. everybody asks when i will get married. my cousins left a while ago.
dad comes closer to me and pulls out a cigarette, "someday i will get up on fajr and pray like your mother does". it's been three years now, and he whispers "inshallah".
yesterday, my aunt faked a smile at my sisters old pictures and damned the evil who took her away.
her son is lost on another country, and i can not reach my own niece. she fakes a kind smile while keeps arguing with her friends about how my brother lost his mind.
but insanity doesn't come for you, until you learn that your mother choose herself upon you, and your father is not your father, and no one is kind, willing to help, to love, like they promised.
and the pole dance is warmer than their hearts, the money sweeter than the hunger. the men's touch, hurts less than watching your son dirty and starving.