Womb

She nurtured me with her body,

a way no one else was designed for.

She carried me, caressed me

when I did not ask her to.

When I was incapable to fend for myself.

She created a life with her touch

and gave me light.

She steps on glass and goes through thorn bushes.

I can see her flesh fade away

like beauty on a tired face.

I cry and plead

for her to come back

to the luxuriant rye

that she laid me on. With this life that she has steamed for me

I can not help but feel guilty.

Guilty for wanting to take it away.

What she does not know

is that I too, pick out thorns from my skin

on the grass that she laid me on.

But I can never have it in my heart

to blame her.