In the concentration camp called Home (triggering)

In the concentration camp called Home,
we report in striped pajamas
to the bare feet commandant,
Our Mother orchestrating
our daily holocaust.

Burrowing her fingernails
through my palms,
a scream frozen between us,
a stalacite of terror
in the green caves of her eyes
there, sentenced to forced labour:

to mine her veins of hatred
to shovel her contempt
to pile scorn upon scorn
beating(s) a path.

At noon, Our Mother
leads us to the chambers
naked, ripples of flesh
she turns on the gas
and watches our hunger
as her food devours us.

(By Sam Vaknin, author of Malignant Self Love-Narcissism Revisited)

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