if you were to peel the skin of me apart as a fig's, you would finally understand. i am my mother's daughter. from poisoned seeds sprout poisoned fruits.
"mother?"
i call for her until my throat is scratched and dry, my voice is reduced to a pathetic rasp, and all i taste is the blood she regrets giving me.
( Someone leaves a halla statuette near the edge of the forest. A prayer, maybe. A wish. How dare they?
It does not belong here, and so it is lost beneath murky waters. Is it lost if it is done with intention? )