I’d love my 200th post
To be full of love and stuff
But it comes from a place of rage:
someone who’s had enough
of doing the thinking for others
and always bowing her head.
Well, take it back, you ****ers:
we’re not long til we’re dead.
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
of reserves.
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.
