When they choose me to take from,
there’s a part of me that’s diminished.
Like sucking from a mother’s breast,
they take and take ‘til I’m finished.
I feel pulled upon, resentful. Empty
They feast upon my desserts,
my mains and my hors-d-oeuvre.
Although their hunger’s not mine,
an essence from me they seek,
some form of mother nurture
that in denial they sleep.
But, just like Old Mother Hubbard,
my stocks are growing bare.
Time to close the cupboard and
say no, if I dare.