We Need To Talk About The Child

A woman, middle-aged, lying on the bed.
She shed tears, overflowing.
Her legs and arms grew limp.
The way saliva drooled from the corner of her mouth.
The way mucus came out of her nostrils.
Oh. The way she pumped out all that tears.
She should’ve passed out any moment now, should she?
Her body seemed inert.
Nobody would’ve imagine her in any other shape.
As if she was made to cry that way, in that precise bed, and that exact position,
For days and days and days.
Until people talk about it and made legend out of it.

But she’s not alone.
There’s a child, watching her. A girl-child.
Her face were stoic.

Isn’t she just lumps of human meat, shaped like human,
which someone just put on the bed, and made to shed tears like human?
Or is she a withered flower?

Sitting beside her, the girl-child didn’t touch the woman.
At all.
Though she’s her mother.

We need to talk about the child
don’t you think?

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