Lace by Bella Harris
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a tapestry of guilt and shame
that births itself
from impossible love
and a strength our bodies inherit.
There are days when all I breathe
is my child’s laughter
the spark in his eyes
and there are days where I feel like a martyr;
drowning in a pool of subtle pressures
wearing pain, yet,
The name mother
is sometimes brittle on my tongue.
is a paradox;
a God in skin.
And I meet her every day,
at the edge of myself.