Queen of Sorrow

I've never seen my mother happy. Since my birth, the deadly silence has captured her, coaxed her to sleep with sorrow.

Tonight, the moon, again, witnessed my mother's sadness. Amidst my bursts of laughter. Even with my smack of temper. Her patience is my territory.

I don't hate my mother. I hate her loneliness. I hate it when she cries every time I bite her nipples. She could have squeezed and drowned me. In milk. To my expectant face.

I hate her when she threatens me with father. I always resort to my childish outbursts. She should have hurled hurtful phrases instead.

There is nothing but loneliness in her face: lined with wrinkles, pallid because of sleeplessness, withered by muteness.

Mother, it is okay to flinch. You can always hurt me. You can always hate me. Get even. Don't you know I hate your lie that I am and will never be a mistake?