i have wanted a baby since i was thirteen.

not in the way girls sometimes say they do

but in the way my ribs felt hollow for it,

in the way i built whole futures in my head,

tiny names tucked under my tongue like prayers.

lately, i’ve begun to wonder

if i am built for heartbreak instead.

the irony stings 

a body shaped for creation

that might never create.

a womb that feels more like a warning

than a promise.

and it feels like punishment sometimes,

though i don’t know what crime i’ve committed.

maybe for wanting too much,

maybe for believing i could love something

into being.

no one tells you how heavy the maybe can be 

how it hums under your skin,

how every ache feels like a prophecy.

i keep waiting for proof

that my body is not my enemy.

but maybe this is the joke 

that the thing meant to hold life

can only hold longing.

that i was made with both the hunger

and the cage.