Mourning.

Every time a mother
dies, it rains,
every time a daughter,
cries- moans- wants
to hold the world in her hands,
every time death, becomes a word
set in stone,

every time a daughter
mourns her dead mother at twelve,
and wishes there were more things
she could tell her, wishing there
were lesser secrets
she had kept, and slowly the death
becomes callouses over deeper wounds
beneath, she is told pain, comes at the
price of womanhood,

every time a mother forgets
to check for lumps, every time she
forgoes a test, every time someone
tells her, women are made of suffering,
and childbirth becomes a bliss, and
menstrual cramps become a blessing,
and rupture on the first night
becomes a celebration, every time
blood and pain and suffering become
her only identity,

every time she
becomes the rain,
unnoticed
and forgotten,
a mother dies

(To the daughter who mourns her mother’s death tonight. And to the mother, upon whose death her family realised, there was so much more to take care of, so much more to hold close)

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