My back hurts from scrubbing your stains
But this frailty is mine
My scars won't heal; ugly marks
Bear witness of a mother's sacrifice
I am mismatched pieces of broken pottery
To be seen, not held
These old feet runs
Breath hitching, ague catching
You, abashed; face scarlet red
Those pools of fiery hatred set ablaze
Tossed away
Not fast enough
Not good enough
No... never enough
This womb feels an absence
This child,
now recoils at my touch
These blistered hands
These are cracked clay; not love.
Your name runs over my chapped lips,
My head leadens with memories I once deserved
A son alike his father
A maiden in place of a mother
Candor runs that tongue
I am those words you throw around
I am the weaver of my own desolation.
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