My therapist wants to know about my relationship with my country

From the other side of the Atlantic, nine thousand eighty kilometers away,
I open my eyes and I look at the ever-grey sky.
I am exhausted, my soul hurts, the disconsolate ache of today.
I struggle to cope with the pain that breaks me from the inside,
unable to keep scrolling down the news that never fail to horrify.
Damned headers, promoting the way she died.
She did not die, it was a femicide.
My mouth is shut in solidarity, the knot grows in my throat;
I disappeared for a day, but ten women in México won’t make it back home.

Lives, aspirations, dreams, plans; everything abruptly cut.
How to modify the course of History?
Attempts to figure out my place in this big world
and how to start to clean up this mess.
I saw the suffering, I experienced the pain.
But I believed in resistance, I believed in change.
I was brought here on a mission:
Education is a force to unite nations for peace
and it’s ironic that this stirs in my heart
urges for chaos & fight.

I want the earth to tremble, to shake violently,
I want to destroy the system that oppresses us.
This might be just me ranting, but surely more coherently
than the ones that can’t understand why all the fuss.

My phone beeps, a notification. Reality slap. I want to puke.

They’ve found another body, 
and another, and another, and another.
Sucks to tell their stories in numbers.
They had a life.
       She was only seven.
       She was in her home.
       She was retired.
       She was going to university.
       She was in the crib.

The fault wasn’t mine, not where I was, not how I dressed.

Humanity, where are you?
I am privileged knowing that I am safe while my compatriots
have to pretend to be dead to be taken into account
I close my eyes,
I think of my sisters, my mom, my grandmas, my cousins, my friends,
that girl that passed me on the street the other day.
        At least we got each other’s back.

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