Dear innocent child,
How short a few weeks they were, when hunger was defeated by a brief suckle and fear was dispelled by the comfort of motherly breasts.
For so soon did the breast turned into a sharp dagger to mutilate you, and to paint your face not with the colours of playful joy, but with your own blood.
Do the cuts sting and hurt?
Is that painful drink too salty?
Are you very scared of that sharp dagger that "mother" is holding?
Are you confused as to why she smiles with satisfaction while you agonize in pain and fear?
Did you feel abandoned when she "hurt" you?
It is savagely too soon a burden upon you to know that you are indeed alone...but you do know... and your eyes reveal all about your painfully early discovery.
For the hand that holds that dagger, that mutilates you, that feeds you your own blood, that secures a smile of satisfaction for the culprit, is the deliberate hand of your own "mother"