Scars Like Petals

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"I pray now that this never happens to anyone."

Let this never happen—
not to a mother,
not to a child,
not to any soul walking this fragile earth.
let no breast be robbed
of the milk meant for lullabies.
May no woman have to
kiss death gently
just to survive another day.
Let her smile be untouched,
her hair unfallen,
her heartbeat free from fear.
I ask for no miracles,
only mercy—
a quiet shield
between sorrow
and those who love too deeply to lose.
This is my prayer—
not for me alone,
but for every life
that deserves to bloom
without pain.
Let no pain take root
where love was meant to flow,


They told her one morning,

in a sterile room, too bright—

"It’s cancer," they said,

and the world dimmed to night.


Her hands, once full of lullabies,

now clenched in silent fight,

the mirror showed a stranger's chest,

but not her spirit’s light.


Where milk should flow,

my breast now holds,

instead of life-giving white,

dark, knotty lumps of pain.


Locks of hair like fallen leaves

gathered on the floor—

each strand a whispered memory

of the woman from before.


She learned to live in hospital halls,

with IVs like tangled vines,

and smiled between the chemo waves

as if pain had no signs.


Cancer clutched tightly,

invading the sacred pillars of my love,

filling them with bitter, harmful experiences.


To the disease that came

like an uninvited lover,

she didn’t flinch—

she waited,

and when it arrived,

she smiled,

offering it warmth

instead of war.


Her child would press a kiss

on the stitched and healing skin,

asking not of what was gone,

but what still lay within.


They don't know,

that for my baby’s

soft, tender lips

the rainbow taste

of breast milk

is now no more.


No milk left to give,

but still, she nurtured—

with lullabies hummed

through cracked lips,

and tears wiped

before her child could see.


My unwavering love

will never again overflow in a single drop.

In the pathways meant for milk,

now only the raw throbbing of my heart remains.


Her hair fell like silent rain,

but she stood,

bareheaded,

bare-souled,

undaunted.


Between the needles,

the nausea,

the nights of prayer and pain,

she stitched a life together

with threads of fierce love.


Through burning days and sleepless nights,

she rose, though weak and sore,

a warrior with quiet grace

and courage at her core.


Perhaps,

my breast aches

for the absence of milk?

Or for the absence of those lips?


And now—

when I see her,

I don’t see illness.

I see a woman

who held death like a baby

and whispered,

"You too are mine."


The world may mark her body now,

but not the fire inside—

her scars are like the petals

of a rose that never died.

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