Mother In Rage.

By Syona Rajput

Her blood does not run but pierces through me. Her movements aren't mine.

Coincidences, I'll always believe.

Her hands weren't laid rightly on me. But she created mine, how will mine be? Will they be able to hold the secrets, she couldn't keep?

Her rage, she loved more than me.

Always gave in to her.

Did she pass her down to me?

Midnights, the question haunts me.

No one shall suffer cutting off their hands, if the ones of their raisers weren't restrained. Or have tie knots to their tubes,

solely in fear, of passing down a similar fate. No heart deserves to be raised,

By a mother in rage.

By Syona Rajput