All of my sons and daughters are dead. They were never born but their death stands just as realized because forever, their mother, chose herself over them and us, mistaking the comforts of a new house for the peace of home.
She said all of us were not enough to make her stay. And we could not understand why her ambition could not inhabit the same room as our joy; why every open door and window now needed to be walled in; why all the family photos were being taken down; and why our garden full of cherry blossoms had to be set on fire.
The burning smell made our eyes swell, our voices heavy and our bodies tremble but that made no difference to her. It surprised me to see a woman lose all of her grace so quickly just so she could make room for new bodies and lies. I wondered what she was hoping to find in a city where people lived in glass houses always afraid of stones and passersby. Where would she bury us so no one ever heard our stories and cries?
All the men in me are broken and tired now. They want to be no one's sons, brothers and husbands. There is an invisible grimace on their faces from having their home and future stolen from them. There are no graves for those they love and yet so much of them is already dead. They wonder in the dark of the night what black magic took the light from their eyes and how different tomorrow might have been had home meant more to someone.