I meet the eyes of my mother less and less,
because of my envy, that I could never get past,
and the fear that I will pass the point of being her pride and joy, disappearing into her disappointment.
My body is a clam that longs for a pearl,
passed over by the unkind sea,
that never saw fit to find me worthy of motherhood.
I don’t know that I’d be any good.
Children smile at me.
Children stare at me on buses,
but I’m sure it takes much more than that,
to make some cells into a success,
and maybe I just want a child in the way that a child wants an imaginary friend?
I want to pretend that I am not hurtling through the human experience with nobody to matter to.
I want to pretend that when I am gone, an echo of me will remain, growing stronger and louder every day.
I want to pretend that someone will need me, or miss me, or love me.
I want to pretend that my body is not full of poison and could produce something perfect.
I want to pretend that every well meaning but quite presumptuous person who told me that I would be a good mother was right.
I want to pretend I could give up smoking for a whole nine months.