Why is it I sit, gazing in disgust at a scar on my finger,
disfiguring the flawless skin on my hand,
when staring at me in my direction,
beyond the space of buildings and mountains four thousand miles away,
stands a father on weak legs,
looking upon his lethal fingers in bitter revulsion,
shaking in regret with a heaving chest,
for strangling his daughter to death in the
name of honor?


Note: This post has been reblogged from my old blog and edited. 


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