i fear the power of my own womb: we are taught to love,

inserting caution and discernment, but of course leading with heart first

the repetition denotes seriousness 

the power and expectation of ‘liking’

not like I am not scared of, a broken heart, a psyche

i am just greater concerned of what I can create 

not some artwork, carefully done

an event, and the seeds are harvested

this is not a call to believe in some     sci-fi tale   of parasitic attachment

i wouldnt fear what by body would become, or that for the only time in my life it would actually be shared

i’m aware that there's more to coaching than bowties and hair gel, and perhaps this is the thought that scares me

punching holes into walls and letting anger controls the outcome of ones   skin

shaped and created by me to then be absent to another 

i’ve dealt with all the scenarios in my life and it doesn’t stop me from trying to love

it scares me that no matter how picky I appear 

speaking to parent and waiting as long as I can—i could still be stuck with a pretender

i don’t know if it really matters the raising; the forming and the teaching

because I’d like to think   my mother   did pretty well with me