I do[n’t] want kids

You want a baby,
you joke. About this
time, my heart starts to quake.
You know I don’t want kids,
but we’ll cross that bridge
when we get there. I’m scared
of their little hands,
their little hearts. So easy to break,
like my nails that rip and tear
on a whim. You gush
about their wonder, and
I too appreciate their innocence.
But-
we could be our parents.
And maybe
love is finite. I can’t give to them
without taking from you, and
you’ll take from me, to give to them.
Maybe they won’t love you like
I do. Love you like you’re everything
in the world to them, like you are
to me. You deserve that.
They might hurt you, when
they grow up. So quickly
you’ll change from mommy to enemy.
But I love the light in your eyes when
You hold a child. Like home,
like you’re filling a role crafted
for you. I might want kids some day.
But what if I can’t love you like they do?

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I do[n’t] want kids

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