She touched me. In something so indifferent to maternity,
an inhumane humanity drying me of innocence.
She took my body, now a stranger of skin, and made it
a mess of cells that collide in agony.
Broken, may I say, but a break that'll never heal.
Fingers I can't quite comprehend, lacking dignity wholly.
I hate her. I hate how I still feel her hands on me sometimes,
an immortal grasp at my pride. I hate her.