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LNI Mar 2018
Blighted and sorrowful of all creatures are women.
And I, one of them.

I’m massacring my unborn children as a merciless contemporary Medea.
Is there any sense in reproducing creatures of perpetual sadness and despotic desires?

Motherhood. Motherliness.
A fragile pebble carried carefully by my heart.

My mother, sad as the gloomiest Sunday, hopeless as a death wish.
She would often ask me to smile. She was complaining that I was very cheerless for a girl.

Then she would show me how to do it.
It’s still the saddest smile I've ever seen.

— The End —