Your hands always at my stomach, grubbing unkempt lines.

Your desire crosses my skin, leans into my intestines, crawls

through the blood of your disappointment each month.

What am I worth to you, without conception?

What am I worth, without my body?

Price out: my mind, my skills, my potential, my ability.

Ignore even the parts that make you uncomfortable (I will learn

to be silent someday, I swear)

and still: the rubble you are left with

cannot build a home. 

Your pressure between my hips, I could crack beneath the weight

of expectation that you set down

gently in my gut. What am I without motherhood, without breasts,

without food and a desire to provide? 

What am I without open legs and a shut mouth what am I 

worth as a madonna if I only understand my pricing structure as a whore