I’m in a store and it’s too loud and too hot
but I can’t seem to move from this damn spot.
I’m twenty-six and my mother stopped
asking me about the whole children thing a while ago.
The fabric is cottony and soft,
a pastel green baby cloth;
and my heart sinks when I think about
how life is happening and going and
I’m still stuck without knowing where I’m heading.
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You see,
I’ve given five years of my life to a man
who always seemed to crumble in my hand,
buttery soft hands and lips like sweet cream,
but my bloody heart was still bursting at the seams.
I’d weep for hours in the bedroom, kitchen, shower
thinking about the ache of craving so badly to be a mother,
and he’d say we’d cross that bridge when we’d come to it
(Spoiler alert: we never did)
Lying awake and staring at the door,
thinking of how I can’t take it anymore,
how I’d leave everything behind
if it meant
I’d have one thing to call mine,
put my entire life and future on the line
and then,
I know in my heart I’d be finally fine,
I’d be fine.
