There is no glory in calling your child motherly.
No triumph in watching their sacrificial bones broth over in a pot that you're later going to serve your husband.
There's no prestige in witnessing your seed spread thin the cloth over their head until it can no longer protect them from rain.
There's nothing majestic in contemplating your infant overextend their body and stretch out their limbs to finally embrace themselves.
There is no honour in instilling love that knows no boundary, no self-respect, no self-restrain.
There is no glory in letting your child mother themselves.
YOU ARE READING
Purple blush
Poetry''Everything you did to me, I remember. Mama, I made it out of your home alive, raised by the voices in my head. '' -Warsan Shire, Extreme girlhood
