Inside my décor are cobblestones
My womb is plastered in ornaments
My red velvet walls are October halls
It’s the idea that I may not produce life
That every moment is a roll of dice
Turning my dreams into cold sweats
Because in those scenes I never possess
Or greet the face that coos in question marks
Or experience the wonder of housing a beating heart
My ultrasound was simply a void
A portrait of emptiness I reimagined as resilience
A therapeutic response to this unwanted imprisonment
An uncertainty of motherhood that’s no longer my decision
Haunted by the stained black and white image
Wishing instead of cyst, it was our children
This indecision to just keep living
Await the day I have more life to live with
Until then I arrest my pessimism
With the idea that this dream too shall be mine
But this feeling of inadequacy
Has a habit of badgering me
Interrogating my womanhood
Making me lash out at my younger self
Maybe we should have conceived sooner
Maybe that would have helped
Feeling consumed by daydreams of a junior
That my reality dispels
Inside my décor are cobblestones
My womb is plastered in ornaments
My red velvet walls are October halls
Tormented by a lifeless performance.
Melissa Menny is a poet and a writer in all aspects. She’s an HBCU graduate with a Bachelor’s of Arts in Journalism. When she is not working she enjoys music, painting, and spending time with her husband and son.
