I see you.
Your beautiful hair pulled up, your bangs swept across.
The elastic on your T-shirt is tattered and pulled, no doubt from the countless requests for milk each day.
It exposes your regal collarbones. The throne on which sits your precious breasts, nourishing him day after day.
Connecting you.
For life.
When you stand up tall, you look fearless. A queen.
How you deserve to be seen, deserve to be treated.
By them.
By you.
The eyes you call tired look luminous to me, as they do to him.
They’re filled with wisdom and eagerness and ambition and care.
You say you’re worried.
You say you hate how you look, how your body be.
You speak of the past and the lives you lived. A glimpse into another world – where the maiden ruled.
You work hard.
On yourself. On your relationship.
For your child. For the world.
You learn and create and apply and reflect and think and glow and flow.
Who are you now?
You’re just becoming.
Follow its lead.
You’re doing it. You’re the queen.
You’re the mother fucking Mother.
