Personal Narratives Writer

Morning Pages for the Motherless, Part 4

Photo by Rok Romih on Pexels.com

I know she had so little to give. I know she was given even less than me. How could she have been the monolith I needed her to be? How could she have been a haven? She didn’t know what those things looked like; she never felt them painting warmth over her fragile skin. So how could she build it for another when none were made for her?

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