She nurtured me with her body, a way no one else was designed for. She carried me, caressed me when I did not ask her to. When I was incapable to fend for myself. She created a life with her touch and gave me light. She steps on glass and goes through thorn bushes. I can see her flesh fade away like beauty on a tired face. I cry and plead for her to come back to the luxuriant rye that she laid me on.

With this life that she has steamed for me I can not help but feel guilty. Guilty for wanting to take it away. What she does not know is that I too, pick out thorns from my skin on the grass that she laid me on. But I can never have it in my heart to blame her.