Moon at Half Past Noon

My infant heart, a raw red sponge, drinks deep
The bitter milk of mother’s truths, each drop
A needle threading my unformed veins.
Her voice, a loom, weaves my first self—
I’m hers, a clay doll stamped with 'shoulds',
My soft skull pressed to fit her mold.

The cradle’s bars cage my dreaming bones,
Each lullaby a chain I’ll wear for years.
No choice stirs in my milk-fed haze;
Her love’s a script I learn by rote,
Each word a brick in my mind’s first wall.

The sun’s a lie, she swears it like gold,
The sky a bruise she calls my home.
I’m her mirror, reflecting her gaze,
No voice to question, no will to stray.

My fingers, small as sparrow claws,
Grasp at shadows, not my own—
What choice have I, a babe unborn,
When mother’s heart beats my own drum?
Her whispers carve my name in stone,
And I, her echo, have no say.