How the war tamed me?

I’ve been raised by a ghost,
who used to spin around the tombstones twice
each war. I am the daughter of dust and blood.

My eyes sweep the broad streets seeking the light.
I sleep wide-eyed covered with darkness, shivering
from the cold—ice between my shoulders, never melting.

I call my family through my dreams,
see my mother walking on her knees toward
heaven. Then with wings like a butterfly.

I’ve been raised by a nightmare, which pushes me
to nowhere. I’m surrounded by bodies of the dead
holding a ticking bomb.

I wonder why I am here; I wait
to go back to my mother’s womb.

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Image Credit: Painting of a hijab (DeviantArt/nysahanny)