a mother's tears can fill an ocean.
you take her baby and with them you take the parts of her soul only a child can inhabit. you blacken the portions of her spirit only hellfire is known to tarnish. you tear apart her flesh and cultivate her blood. you take everything, except for her heart, which clenches and dies one hundred times over again, before their is a small peace.
you leave her with nightmares, gasping for breath her baby will never receive.
a father's silence can crack open mountains.
his purpose dies in the casket. buried under six feet of dirt: here lies my greatest blessing. i leave him to the sweet embrace of the angels and wet, brown earth.
