She slumps in bed and thinks about the day,
The pain is rupturing inside her head.
She knows that she will never have her way,
At least, if she does not want to be dead.

A picture of her son sits on the shelf;
That face which she can hardly recognize.
She always thought that he looked like herself;
The same round cheeks, the same piercing blue eyes.

She desperately wants to go to him.
To hug his bones; so clean and so untouched,
But now she fears the light is growing dim,
So on she runs, for fear she might corrupt.

She shoots the liquid joy into her veins,
With dreams of death and hope for better days.