dear womb,
as you tick tock with expectations, let me warn you - this is not the place
you want to be.
we both know that if you are filled with innocence, it would be the color of brown, an earthly shade with a dark past.
if you are filled with gender, it would be phallic and tender, with no true way to protect it from harm.
our daughters are put through the ringer and can be molded into pillars despite tragedy,
but our little boys are expected to come out fighting with no mercy; the casualties swept up into a pile of statistics.
a man is a man in the eyes of a man, despite mothers who try to hold on to their little boys every time the street lights came on.
those little boys are always thrown into the path of men, who don't remember what it's like to have scrapped knees kissed by their mothers.
they only remember their first encounters with manhood and how they were told not to cry
where childhood was dropped on the ground like a bag of skittles, spilling fast into a battle of survival of the fittest
pieces of rainbows spinning aimlessly on the pavement, coloring a war unwarranted.
experience will teach the power hungry how to quiet their demons by suddenly making a mother bend over in pain,
feeling her womb drain out of life as she waits for her baby to come.
when she gets that phone call, that visit to her door, her womb becomes devoid of stars. nights suddenly become her worst enemy.
i do not want you to feel that kind of pain womb.
i'll quietly wait for this world to learn what it's like to give birth and to see death before your time,
because i do not want you to tremble at the thought of bringing a son into this world, where a bag of skittles is considered a threat.
please forgive me for letting you tick on.
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