Urdu English poetry

 

when my mother was forming in my grandmother's womb, 

there I was being molded as well. an egg, sitting next to a million others inside my mother,

 listening in on the daily life of a 1950s housewife and soaking in her codependence. 

being conditioned to flinch at trauma that wasn't even meant for me.

maybe this is why I hold my children extra tight at birth,

 trying to soothe all that they have already experienced.