Mother

Cross her and she’ll strike.

A cobra,

spitting the hot venom of harsh words

destined to poison the mind.

Fatal

to the self worth of a child.

But you cannot blame her—

A serpent’s design is to protect.

You must have provoked the Beast

with an imperfect gesture.

You will learn better—

lest cold scales constrict

and crush the wisp of a white lie

from blue lips.

Give into the temptation of her taunting—

and you shall be banished

from the garden of your mind.

Resist—

and peace,

though gradual,

will flower in time.

Be reminded of your power,

for you are created in her image.