I am not meant to mother
      My womb resists 
          a primal ache
                at the sight
of bloodshed 
            staining “the ones he really likes”
   swirling strawberry colored streaks 
                     in the white porcelain bowl’s resting water 
               during that
first trip to the restroom 
             after glancing at a calendar by the door
   and 
        awaiting
                     customary cramps

I am not meant to mother
     My breasts
           still firm
                 the way society likes them to be
                                                in a black balconette bra
         acknowledge their fading youth
                carefully covered beneath
intricate lace patterns
                   and
                smile surreptitiously 
     because
             they have not reached 
                               full capacity
to feed a hungry child
at midnight

2am
and

4 in the morning

             like clockwork

before I (would)
          nibble bits of

              a so-called breakfast
                        that will grow cold
and dare not disappear from a dirty counter top
           I am not meant to mother
                      and 
others
           are
                        do
         can
                    and 
           will

but

 
       I
am not
       can’t(?)
  and
          won’t
likely

…by choice…
     but whose?