Childless Mother, Choosing Recovery

She rocks an empty bedroom. Crib still smell like rain.

Folded tiny T-shirts that never felt the stain. She swore it was just one

time. Swore she had it beat. But comfort turned to chains again,

wrapped around her feet. Paperwork on the table, a signature that

breaks her spine. They said this is temporary, but temporary stole her time.

She's a childless mother with a love she can't outrun. Heart's still beating

for a baby she's not allowed to touch. They took her name off birthdays,

off her steps in school, but they can't erase the part of her