My children will be free like stones over calm lakes
They will drown under the weight of their own burdens
Home will be the hands of the person paying the rent of whatever we live in
Food will be the cans they manage to steal from the grocery store
Hearts beating like butterflies
They will grin at themselves when they make it out unscathed, proud and boastful,
grown-ups before puberty
They will take care of each other
It will always be them
They will learn that family means never giving up, never letting go, always supporting with whatever we have left to give
They will have a poet for a mother
This means that words will be the wombs from which they were born
Sadness will run through their veins
Their eyes will be lined paper, their smiles pens, their bodies a culmination of grief and love
They will be neglected, second best, always clamouring after filled notebooks
They will be stones
Thrown over lakes in a game
Sinking
Drowning