motherhood
I don’t need motherhood.
The number of girls who cry in my arms,
talk about their feelings,
just to disappear with a man—
ten too many.
My priority and care—
pushed aside, replaced, discarded.
I say, “I’m sad that I don’t see you.”
You say, “I’ll change,” but never do.
The world says, “It is what it is. Can’t you just be happy?”
I say, “Sorry, I’m just being jealous.”
You are gone without a trace.
I am already a mother—
in a rocking chair, sitting on her porch,
waiting for her daughters to return.
I don’t need motherhood.
The herd of boys who laughed in my arms,
talked about their thoughts,
just to disappear with a girl—
ten too many.
My attentiveness and patience—
pushed aside, crumbled, thrown out.
I say, “I want more.”
You say, “I can’t,” and don’t change.
The world says, “It is what it is. Men are trash.”
I say, “Sorry for being needy.”
You are gone without a trace.
I am already a mother—
sitting by the landline in the middle of the night,
hoping to hear even a little bit about your life.