She was asked; 'Does this child belong to you?'
To which she replied; 'No, it doesn't.'
That was the first day she called me an 'it'.
That was the day my mother left too.
For some reason I lied - lied, then I cried.
I told them I'd seen my mother nearby.
Sank into the bushes, and slept through the night.
I cried and cried, till my eyes were too dry.
That was the last time I set eyes on my mother.
At least in real life, for her face never left.
She wallowed about in my nightmares too.
If she couldn't love me, I could never love her.
They give me their pennies when they walk by.
They pity me; unable to read or write.
They may spare their money, but never a glance.
Maybe they'd notice if 'it' were to die.
