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Andrei Corre Aug 2021

me long enough
that  I  could  no longer
strife and anger for myself. You
carried all these sins and melancholy
on your back, only letting me taste the
silver spoon in my mouth. You taught me
me to sit and behave, make no unappealing
sounds, but mother, your daughter belonged
to anger and strife for your mother, all her other
children, and for you whose only words breath that
of broken reassurance and empty pledges of safety. All
but a solace chant against reeking tyranny. My ears grew
to the cacophony
of revolt in between your lullabies.
The blood of the covenant assimilated
with the water of the womb. So mother,
I ask you to pony my hair now and forgive
me. Your children will dot all
thoroughfares and bellow 'no'
for you. So you do not have
to kneel to every friend, to
ev’ry conqueror, stroke their
*****, then cry yourself to sleep

— The End —