Take me back to your warm womb where nothing can make me cry. Grab me with your delicate working hands and make my nomad feet stop. Caress my face and clean my energy with your reiki-infused hands. I pretend to be a skeptic, denying your healing powers and ethereal wisdom.

Tell me what to do and stop letting me live all these moments I call mistakes and you call life. Prohibit me to follow these passions that bring chaos and aliveness to my innocent body. It has been touched and seduced probably more times that you would’ve allowed, but it’s still naive and pristine. It’s still your little girl’s body, right?

We are both women, now. I can see your fears, desires, and weaknesses. Years don’t make any difference; we’re both looking for the same.

Yesterday, I was cutting a mango and thought of you while the juice tried to force my hand to let it go. Mango cutting was your art. My hands are still small and weak, and they are still learning to calm the mango with the knife, just like a trainer dealing with a spooky horse.

I could see the Manhattan skyline from the window, and smell the warmth of your food. A great sadness invaded my soul while facing such first world creation. This wasn’t home.

Will I ever stop missing your hands that massage me even if they are exhausted? Will I ever stop needing you even if I’m a so-called grown up? Will I ever stop pretending that I’m fine, when I just want to tell you that I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing with my life?

Take me to that place where I’m allowed to play because I’m indeed a child, where I cry because I’m laughing not because of the unfairness of this world. Cure this illness of mine that makes me see the inner suffering of every person I come across.

Remind me, once again, why was I born in this body and with this soul?