Mother
she has the wrath of a god but the mind of a human
the steel grip of an eagle, but she’s painfully weak
i shake like a leaf
since whatever she’s doing
makes me scared to the bone, i can’t even speak
whenever she screams, the silence that follows
deafens me more than her voice
don’t prick your finger, thread in a needle
none of us are here by choice
her stare burns my skin; it’s shabby and marred
the scars on my knees are surgically placed
i’ll keep it together
my face stays unscarred
but i look like my father; she says it’s a waste
Copyright © March Archer | Year Posted 2023
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