in another life
i hand myself the softness i craved
the hush of a nursery,
tiny socks folded in drawers,
the scent of baked cookies
and giggles echoing down a hallway i built
with both hands and every part of my heart.

in another life,
i let myself be her
the one who kneels to tie shoelaces
and learns their favorite video game
just to lose on purpose.
the mom who never forgets a bedtime story
even when the world outside forgets
everything else.

but not in this one.
not here.
not when the sky falls in headlines
and safety feels like a myth
told to children too young to know better.

my mother still holds hope
she says:
you’d be a good one.
you’d love so fully, they’d bloom.
but she doesn’t see
that my love is the very reason
i won’t.

because to carry them
into this chaos
this fractured, loud, unforgiving place
feels like betrayal
dressed in lullabies.

so i stay empty,
not from lack
but from a fullness of care
so deep it aches.

and maybe
in another life
i will not love them
by leaving them behind.