You haunt me, constantly
twisting my dreams into nightmares, and
nerve-racking my mind at the sight of pampers.
Approaching forty, mother of none:
why couldn’t I give birth to more than a hope?
Happily single, despite what you say, without
dealing with a kid who’ll only grow to hate me,
the crumb-snatcher taking from my plans and pay,
but....
I’m so **** lonely and you know it.
You,
you with your what-ifs and would’ve-could’ve-should’ves,
not allowing me to soundly sleep,
making me carry that weight,
with a life as empty as my womb,
tormented
by immoral choices that
stopped your possibilities.
I can only
now say:
“Mommy’s sorry.”