I feel ashamed
when sleep overcomes me
and I sleep through the night here
without worry,
without a wall collapsing,
without counting the cracks in the ceiling,
without a window overlooking
ashes.
I feel ashamed of a peace I don’t deserve,
of warm bread,
of a steady hand that doesn’t tremble while eating,
or when the night passes
without me counting sounds
or placing my bag next to the door.
I feel ashamed
when I don’t hide from anything,
when above my head rises
only a calm ceiling
that asks nothing of anyone,
when a day passes with no surprises,
when I don’t count the news
or tally names in my heart.
I feel ashamed
when I make my bed
and no one destroys it behind me,
when I choose my clothes
not because I survived, but simply because I choose.
I’m embarrassed by laughter
when it isn’t preceded by tears,
and by walking down the street
without looking at the sky.
It shames me when life pats my shoulder
as if to say: live…
and I know I have lived
for many others.
