You said
You wrote with your spilt blood...
We,
Your women readers
See our own blood searing your pages.
Your limited 800 word vocabulary,
came handy in our limited world
of babyhshit, unwashed utensils
and tears.
Kamala, Amy, Madhavikutty...
Love never cured you, darling.
It became your disease.
Like it was ours.
Typing poems in lonely office rooms,
I bequeth these spilt, red wounds
To you...my mother.
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