We haven't met 
   And well, we may never. 
         You do not exist. 
                                     Yet   
                       Not yet expecting...but expected obligations   l o o m  
   Brewing in my ovaries...blood stained reminders of your potential 
   My duty as a women? Hah.  
   A relief, another careless month in the clear! 
        Girl or boy? Blue or Pink? Half-black or half-white?  
            Colorblind. I cannot know. I do not care.  
                Tangled in the dance called creation 
  I don't think about what I could be making 
        Just what am I getting. Am I getting more than I intended? 
Sweaty and gasping,  a symphony of sound, harmony of energies and bodies
    ecstatic remix
         ebony embracing ivory  
I do not think about when the tones blend  
                                           A new song 
                                               A part of me 
                                                   A different shade 
Can I share my body with another?  
As a mother, not a lover... 
Give birth to a new love 
An experiment in cause and effect  -  random generation 
         Confusing cycles and complicated choices.  
                                                     I can accept aborting an idea  
                But when does the unborn thought start to exist? 
You do not exist.  
Yet the idea of you does.  
The you in me. The me in you.  
    Will you wear my hand-me-down clothes? 
        Share my colorful style or slip through the holes of my unlucky jeans? 
              Get tangled in the addictive threads weaving our family quilt? 
Was Dr. Daddy right about the complex? 
       Is this all just a Freudian slip? 
           Will you write a poem about wanting to kill me? 
                   Like I tried to stab her with sharp words  
Striving to disobey,  
                saying yes just because she said no,  
         Because I don't know if I'm strong enough 
                 to bear the burden  
               the rejection  
       the inevitable pain  
the side effects of being  
      -a silmultanesous giver of life and death-  
         I hate seeing myself in my Mom like I hate seeing the mom in myself 
          a hate that could only exist on a spectrum of love 
                     Love? Love I have plenty to offer.  
And yet I still hurt the ones that love me the most.  
Perhaps because I know they will forgive me? 
                                         Will you forgive me? 
                                         Will you love me? 
         All I really want is love... 
I don't think I love you  
                                    yet. But I could.  
You do not exist.  
                                      But you could.