I Was A Mother Way Too Young

my womb is hollow,

not now, nor ever, had anything of significance called it home.

i am far too young,

too innocent, to push forth life.

yet, i posses such maternal compulsions?

the urge to care for my creator is so strong.

the urge to preserve his cadaver from further rot—

to keep him safe.

he is who derives from me:

i am the comforter,

his confidant,

the secret educator.

mirrors cannot perceive my age.

honestly, i do not know how to tell, myself.

for I do not know if age is displayed by things such as tick marks, or an unwashed liver, or how many kin I parturite.

if that is true, then i am young.

fresh & clean.

ripe, if you will.

when may my remains be bottled to rest?

i was born into motherhood and childhood all the same.

so where is the line drawn?

maybe when my vision blurs, my flexibility depletes, my independence is stripped

there will be no line to see, for I am just as good as an infant.

when i finally rest,

i will be silent.

no more of my exasperating complaints

for a newborn cannot speak.