By Darling Alvia
She fled the Mother land.
For chemical burnt hands,
Knees bent, praying for a better chance,
roof over her head.
Sleeping in park benches.
She called it the freedom land.
So that I could grow like hydrangeas by the mass.
But they pluck us, and tell us to go back,
to the places our mothers fled.
My name is Darling I’m 22 years old and I’ve been writing since I was a child. Most of my poetry and writing is inspired by my upbringing, religious trauma, mental health and my love for women.