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Jan 28
she holds my hand in her palm
cradling it gently
as she cleans
the wounds she reopened
on my calloused paper skin.
The giver birth
the harbinger of my death,
embraces me in crocodile tears.
"Who is she?" I am asked
and in a cracked voice bandaged with promises,
I answer;
"she is my mother."
Been doing some reflection and here's something on motherly wounds.
Written by
zee  20/F/India
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