Stain

This is my problem.
My problem is that 60 days of my life
Every year;
Is spent trying to figure out
What I’m thinking,
Is what I’m thinking.

That this isn’t just something
That the lord made only my job.
That it is,
More to do
With my mental being than my biological.

Not almost as a sickly reminder,
That there is always a possibility
That I might choose,
To have a baby.
Someday.
With Someone.

So i go through this,
I go through
The next five days,
And then the next week,
Craving the company of a protector.
Safety.
Security.

Whatever crampings and cravings
Ought to devour.

And then the next seven days.
Trying to fill voids,
Quite literally,
For nothing but absolutely
Bodily need.

Now what is this?
Trying to figure out
Which man I can talk to.
Because this isn’t something
That i can share with a man.

So should I seek the company of women?
But I don’t wish to.
I seek a man.
I seek my man.

No wonder men lay skyscrapers.
Because every city reminds me on men.
And every woman,
Reminds me of her.
Remembering her man.

I think it is sympathy I seek.
But why is it only asked
Of a woman to consider;
Why is it the only thing that
I have to aspire to become?
Considerate.
Kind.
Gentle.

When all i feel is.
Pain.
Aches.
Bloodshot eyes.
And a burning desire.
Whatever form that takes.

Why is it
That I am trained
Throughout my life for pain.
Why is it
That evolution doesn’t understand,
The pain of the possibility,
Of being a Mother.

I am a child myself.
The idea of bringing another child,
To even think and talk
Of Motherhood.
And liabilities.
And Responsibilities.

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