I would empty myself of life to hold you again, but they tell me not to rush fate. They tell me that it gets better. My dreams have fallen. I worshiped joy and found sorrow. I dared to fly and I have been shot down. I remain crippled by my own imagination.
Let them dismiss their luck. I greet them with hollow eyes. They deny the power motherhood gives them. Mere sheep, for I give birth to death. I am the mistress of suffering, the bedfellow of unrequited need and relentless heartbreak. I am pain and tears and blood. I leak the gore of half-formed life.
Bring to me your flowers in their prime. I will teach them to wilt. Your pain is my nirvana.