Through the Body of an Immigrant.

Before.
I am a child.
I love my country.
I touch it and feel its warmth.
I see my family's worry reflected on their faces.
And I hear people's voices full of rage and fear.
Yet I smell the familiarity around the streets,
Reminding me that I am home
And I taste the sweet innocence in my body,
That lets me ignore what I hear and see.

During.
I am a teen.
I fear my country.
I still touch it but feel distant from it,
As if it was slipping through my fingers
Without letting me hold on.
I see my mother's tears,
Because she knows that she can't stay
But that she doesn't want to leave.
I hear the screams, the bombs, the shots, and the cries;
I can't ignore them anymore.
I smell the salt from the beach
As I reach the airport's doors.
And I taste the salt from my own tears,
That accentuate what I hear and see.

After.
I am an adult.
Except that, maybe, I am still a child.
I miss my country;
I can't touch it anymore.
I see my parents' struggle to fit in,
And all I hear is this unknown language,
That everyone seems to understand but me.
I smell the foreign streets
Reminding me of what I left.
And I taste the sourness of nostalgia,
That intensifies what I am and feel.