My mother's touch was never gentle.
Yet, I wished to be cradled by her burning hands.
It left angry marks: black, blue, and green.
I wear it like a crown, a king and his kingdom.
The pain I had seeded become a tree,
It bloomed, but watered by my mother's care.
Young, oh little one, pity you.
Like a hatched duckling, you followed her.
You never grow your wings, and hid under hers.
Sheltered, comforted of a familiar hate.
Young, oh little one, pity me.
Chained to this turmoil, a prisoner of one's past.
My mother's touch is all I know.
It was never gentle, yet I craved it.
The ugly heart I harboured, bounded to her past.
A series of continuous cycle of us,
To a mother and daughter, another mother and daughter.
I pity her.
