Rip out
this fertile womb
that shreds itself apart
month after month with no children
pending. 

Little
ones are not on
the docket of my life.
No woman or man will change this
disgust. 

Why should
I suffer through
this mess of womanhood
year after year with no trial
nearing?

Pressure
is flooded on
to me with title wave
expectations, but I’m filled with
dust. 

Desert
and blood are all
that’s going to pour out
of me and that’s fine, I am
content.

It was
evolution
that formed me against my
consent, so now I’m making my
own choice.

Is it
a murdered crop
if the weeds were never
seeded and the earth was never
watered?

Do not
try to shame me.
You have no say in the
use of my garden’s potential
harvest.

Even
if I still have
to settle for dealing
with sand and debris, I am
complete.