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Last night I opened the door to a fear I do not know,
a stranger from the street.
Its overwhelming silhouette now casting over my feet.

It greeted me like a neighbour,
tightly gripping at my hand,
a warmth not becoming of the spectre I did not understand.

For my life I've carried this scar.
A symbol of my mother's mercy,
A blessing of a life for which others have been thirsty.

I quietly parade it in defiance,
that slender crescent moon,
rising from my skin so as not to be forgotten.

Now I stand at the doorway of my conscience
and warily make acquaintance,
with the helpless fear that long feasted on my mother's patience.
I searched everywhere.

Couldn't find anywhere.

Nowhere to be found.

I am lost.
I often wonder —

What is more painful:

to lose someone you once had,

                      or

to never have anyone to lose?
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