belonging to

belonging to

like a car,

or a dog,

but not in the sense kept people know.

I don’t belong to them

the way the children they pulled

from their wombs

belong to them.

It does not equate.

It will not suss out in the way they’d like it to

when they pry their crow bar questions

into me like I’m

in the middle of an act of betrayal

by looking for

the woman who birthed me.

I’m in the middle of living

after a spiritual death

that only a few people

I’ve met in my life truly understand

and are willing to make space for.

This me you think you know,

It’s not me. It’s them.

This is for me.