To the woman whose back finds no rest
Checking in men to be mother, your children’s best.
To the woman, who fears the dark
Because your insides housed too many lives
And yet you are without shelter
A mother to children who should be to you siblings.
To the woman
Whose womb has turned graveyard
Burying babies before the first cry
Dreading when the last blood will be seen on the pad.
To the woman whose pillow has turned fertile ground
Nursing demons that haunt at dawn
With streams of tears that should have never flown.
To the woman who cheerfully signed out of life
So she would be mother to children she’d never tuck in bed
Nor have the pleasure of watching them chase after the birds.
And to the woman who signed up for life
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