Why is it that I sit here gazing in disgust at a scar on my finger that
supposedly disfigures 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,
who looks upon his flawed fingers in bitter revulsion,
shaking in regret with a heaving chest,
for strangling his daughter to death in the
name of honor?


The Daily Cognitive


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