They Didn’t Teach Us Love
They didn’t teach us love,
so we kill.
They didn’t teach us to speak,
so we kill.
Our childhood, a paper rocket,
frolicks in the sky of a mother’s hands.
Only she was always there,
cooking up our future,
washing and rinsing us of the bitterness of time,
dressing and undressing us as we grew,
splashing us with a handful of water
after every first day of school.
Only the mother was always there.
A father who stayed late at work,
a father who came home tired and mustn’t be angered,
a father who slept and the whole house held its breath,
a father with worries who mustn’t be disturbed,
a father who had the right to raise his voice,
because he was the pillar of the home.
The mother was alone, always.
A woman who gives birth and is killed,
a woman who raises and is killed,
a woman who teaches you love and is killed,
a woman who teaches you forgiveness and is killed,
a woman who marries for love and is killed by her own love,
a woman who bears children in the name of love
and is killed before her children’s eyes,
a woman who is the absent mother and father of every child
and is killed by her own kindness,
a woman who gives birth and is killed
by the man who didn’t know,
who refused,
who couldn’t,
who failed to learn the strength of her love.
Within our bodies
the darkness brews the crimson of demons.
They didn’t teach us love,
so we kill.
