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.