January 5, 2009 at 7:03 am 1 comment

I don’t want to have a baby
Right now or when I’m forty
Just so I can tell myself
That I’m no longer lonely

I don’t want to change its diapers
Or clip coupons from the mail
To buy mushed food and formula
I’d just as soon bail

I don’t want to quit my day job
Or wear maternity clothes
The thought of all that crying
Sends me into fits of woes

I don’t want to lose my interest
In afternoons of fucking
When one orgasm once a week
Chalks me up to lucky

I don’t want the picket fence posts
Ever after, happily
I don’t want to have a baby
(I don’t want a little me.)

Entry filed under: Poetry. Tags: , , .

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1 Comment Add your own

  • 1. Lauren Davis  |  January 5, 2009 at 7:09 am

    A mixture of raw truth, irony, and metaphor, this poem is more about discomfort within one’s own skin than it is about forever wanting to remain childless. It’s one of the saddest pieces I’ve ever written.



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