She

       She was so alone, on her own, and blind.

      She never wanted to become a wife.

      Money was happiness, she did not mind;

     Her heart to bleed from the bittersweet knife.

     The world changed cruel and unforgiving.

    She despised not just men but people too.

    Rotting inside her was something living.

    The marks of birth were her permanent tattoo.

     Now she abused her defenseless petite.

   She had fed anger, hate, and mostly rage.

   She knew she was as sweet as deceit.

   So the little girl became old with age.

   Soon the cycle will come to another.

  But memories will never fade mother.