Confessions

I never wanted to be a mother.

I wanted a penthouse

piercing the starlit sky.

Overlooking a city

crawling with people

that were there, but not there.

I wanted a passport

littered with stamps

from 4 corners of the globe.

Each print proof of my adventure

and a promise for my return.

I wanted freedom, in the form of a margarita,

ice cold and sweet,

with a crust of salt

that made my lips smack.

Enjoyed

with me

myself

and I.

It was easy to want this. All of this.

When loneliness is a commodity

and not a burden.

When being solo

is your only company

against the world.

No one to lean on you, but no one for you to lean on.

It works

for a time.

In the beginning, it’s all you need.

You get tired, though.

A person is not a building

for people to enter and then leave.

Rather a dandelion

carried by the wind.

Twisting and turning,

far from home

until they land

to grow.

To blossom into something new

and watch their seeds

in turn

fly.

And when you realize this,

that penthouse becomes a prison.

That passport, a record

of everywhere you were, alone.

That margarita,

a slow poison

to numb.

Maybe instead, of a reflection in the mirror

I could see another, looking back at me

with my eyes

and his nose,

and my color,

and his wit.

I’d be by their side, pointing at the stars in the sky,

the stars I once looked at, alone.

They’d trace the stamps in my passport, captivated by where I went,

and imagine going

for themselves.

We’d sip pretend tea

With the tea set I bought

in the antique store

and giggle

at make-believe adventures

not yet realized.

I wouldn’t be

shackled.

Shelving my dreams

like blank journals

collecting dust.

The books would be open,

waiting

to be filled.

I never wanted to be a mother.

Until I became one.