I grow used to the turn of your shoulders at night.

I grow used to the wall of your back. 

What am I worth to you, without conception?

What am I worth, without my body?

Price out: my mind, my time, the labor and creation of my will.

For comparison: obeisance, wetness, heat. Your dreams.

The mouth, the hands. Your cum.

Ignore the parts that make you uncomfortable (I will learn

to be silent someday, I swear)

and see: the rubble you are left with

cannot build a home. 

Your hands in my guts, you wrench, I lurch. I could crack beneath the weight

of expectation that you set down

gently, heavy, between my hips. 

What am I without motherhood, without breasts,

without food and a kitchen 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?

I could charge you hourly, but for the privilege of

your back, your glare, your thrusts, I keep my peace, 

I run your bath, I become host.