Shrinking my life from a symphony
endowed with nuance, shade, light, melody
and counterpoint plus harmonics.
Reducing me to a parody unrecognisable.
A bitter cacophony.
Do you realise how your clever hatreds form
naught but the accompaniment to your woman-hating dirge?
Each aria says to every woman,
that she is lesser.
Even if she doesn’t realise it yet,
and still believes she is free.
She is a vessel of evil.
Fit only for incubator status.
Everything defective from skin to frame to thoughts.
Shrinking my loss, my baby, the grief to dot points.
How did we move so far from love
that a mother’s grief became the vehicle
with which to punish her?
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