A Lone Wolf
a poem
To be a woman who has no desire to bring forth a child is to be an outcast who is hemmed in by brick walls. With no maternal instinct, my organs indulge in the fact that they shall remain in place.
Recharging under the new moon, The cherry pips I conceal between my teeth rejoice in the knowledge that aside from a certain monthly visitor, they shall see no pain.
I vow to impart wisdom in other ways, Ways that do not require the suckling of a parasite. I breathe onto the mirror creating a crisp fog, My reflection is the only child I wish to keep by my side with an almost euphoric glow.
