A mother's love

My mother used to come to my room
With a plate of fruits
At the time, with no appetite
I told her to stop

I never ate them

That was on the days, when my mind got the best of me
where I lost the battle with myself
Where death was the only comforting thought

When my hands turned against me
And I would harm this body of mine
Because in my dance with pain
I couldn't hate myself

My poor mother
Seeing a soul she loves, more than her own
In agony and despair
A soul Starving itself of all the things this world has to offer



Her only solution was a plate of fruit
Organized with love and despair
Hoping that maybe it could do something
Anything



Now 2 years later.
I look back
And
I don't think I would be here


Without that plate of fruit