A girl, vulnerable to her mind; a woman, nevertheless the same.
In the hollow of her washing bubble a puddle commenced; she couldn’t gather herself together again for she was too scattered.
To the least it’s what she believed.

Two babies cradled in a different corner to her, weeping willows mourning; are they to grow into this too?
Rejection of nature predominantly designed a fallacy of lost hood.
The third baby, still weeping, yet enriched with independence. Invited by a luxurious blanket for warmth in harsh winters. Although she remained a soulless entity, she still furnished the cot with crackers and coins.

Under the ice berg someone contained a classified secret: matching skin, shape, and freckles to the motherless mother who is a motherless mother to the children.
Cancerous voids developed after someone observed the woman in isolation; dread for the future of her identity, is it fixed and determined?
Notice the matching freckle.
The singular, particular one. In child’s eye it cried destiny of starvation from stability. As time passed like clouds over soggy skies, the mark had faded into crimson skin.
The dual burden tumbled as if it was an ill mind: she is not her but who is she now?

If the mark bound their love together, who is she now? Is nature of need, instinct and identity consumed by the insatiable washing bubble?
Is the missing freckle to ever be found?