i scoff and curse when a blondhaired little boy stumbles over me. i roll my eyes in annoyance when a stroller is blocking my way when i am running late. i turn my music up a bit higher when two girls start having an animated conversation about princesses and unicorns on the cover of a Target notebook.
the horrors motherhood would do to my body, poisoning it from inside out, wrapping its tendrils around my womb and my heart. i detest it and i fear it, i swore i would never subject myself to it.
i wonder if it makes me a bad feminist, or worse, a fake, when i look at pictures of you with your crooked smile and your eyes warm with love from four years ago, and wonder if our teenage son would grow up to look the same.
when sometimes before going to sleep i think how you would learn to braid hair for our daughter, the one whose name i still haven't told you from the time we had one of our (many) pregnancy scares.
how i was crying and shaking and planning to keep a child in a college dorm, only because it was yours. but i suppose nobody else in the world will ever see that, they will only see that i detest children, and childbirth.
and motherhood.
if it's not with you.
