Words From the Dying

A mother’s love. Unwavering. An assurance. But what does that make of those who don’t receive? How does that affect the individual?

The whole?

Hating her doesn’t help; the harm was as much of a choice of hers as it is a snake after laying eggs. Abandonment, inherent. We are not snakes by choice, but by evolution. By whoever’s mother’s mother’s mother, who first rose their hand and struck, demanding the evolution amongst all daughters to come. Loveless hands.

But a snake doesn’t know. They never knew any other way.

So alone I will sit, and alone I will end.

As these loveless hands must die cold.

  The last snake.