The Favored Daughter

Father, she cries in front of you,

and my heart falls beneath your sacred feet cracked from the weight of days,

etching the map of my loss,

Your body trembles,

as if it migrates toward her heart,

to ease her pain

with that embrace

the one I was cursed for craving,

banished from its mercy,

as if I were a shattered devil.

Why not?

She is the favored daughter.

I was the one who grieved,

but you comforted her.

I was the one who raged,

but you soothed her.

I was the one who died,

but you woke her.

I was the one who shattered,

but you gathered her, drop by drop.

Father, I have died once, twice, three times.

They rescued me

you choose to disregard me,

Left me abandoned without any protection.

I became the rational one,

the one who pats her own wounds alone

who kisses hands

for crumbs of affection,

who waits for warmth

that resembles yours toward her

but no,

I’m not the favored sister.

My tears,

those restless tears,

spill like floods,

knocking on every door,

searching for an embrace,

a word,

anything that isn’t hers.

But there is no answer.

Because I’m not the favored daughter.

Mother, You apologize to her

for raising your voice.

But me?

I’m beaten

for protesting life,

just life

as if life is a luxury,

as if I asked for a miracle.

And I ask myself:

What is life?

Is it to be seen?

To be loved?

To be treated as a whole,

worthy human?

Or was I created just to be a shadow,

the second draft,

the one sacrificed

so she wouldn’t cry?

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