The flickering light of her life – something suddenly so feels for nothing other than mother’s famous, favourite touch
All alignment burned, buried right out, and she speaks in dust-ridden, worn ‘n’ torn syllables anymore

This child should’ve meant everything, suddenly little more than a thankless atrocity – from molehills grow enormously reinvigorated mountainous movements placed distantly out of climbable reach – whilst her manic mind sleeps, preaches from vehemently with-inside

Til caught in nasty entrapment, a lot like left being enthusiastically stuck aside equally vilified
Painfully multiplied by, “Please!!”

Violent forethought indeed
She feels – that we really ought to help her out now more than whenever before…

This appears to be, a decidedly jaded process of postpartum expression, yet to become…

The making of her
Breastfeeding will perhaps bring her back to life – not complicated mother, but rather fight-or-flight daughter