My Womb, My Business

My womb is not your home

Where on its walls is a deed?

No pictures, no shoes by the door

There is no bed for you to claim

A fleshy, boring, organ inside me

Armored, in a sense, to protect a life

However, I keep it empty, as is my choice

Why does that matter to you?

Did I sign a loan for it? And when?

How can a part of me- inside me-

Be for rent? By something that does not exist?

Something I did not ask for

And who are you, who is not I,

To decide that I should take on a tenant?

That I cannot afford to care for

Or that I do not want

In short, my womb is not your home

You cannot tell me how to use it

There is nothing you can do about it

Go grow your own if they matter so much