By Patricia Batenga | September 25,2023

Last night, I bundled my blanket

in the shape of sourdough bread

tucked the fabric beneath my shirt

felt an emptiness in the area tread

I then cradled my blanket

in the shape of a newborn baby

and whispered “I’ll probably never be a mother”

while holding it to my heart tenderly

I promised I’d never

participate in hook-up culture

or any loveless endeavor

I’m too traumatized

and, undoubtedly, preoccupied

But people still raise assumptions

countless times whenever I wear skin-tight clothing

associate my plump physique with stereotypical fashion

“You’re pregnant.”

In a fit of annoyance

I could’ve been just like my mother

in her youth or as a young adult

far from realization or awakening

imitating her acts of rebellion

succumbing to nightly pleasures

then break the news

“I don’t know when it’s due.”

But that’s far from my truth

It wouldn’t sit well in my heart

nor wouldn’t have felt right

the guilt of implying I slept with a man

even before my wedding night

Mother made sure her daughter would never follow

a path that would turn her soul into a husk

ashamed and hollow

doing all that she can

so her daughter won’t settle for less