I try to forgive my umbilical cord,
For carrying souls other than my own.
As its blighted beliefs about authority,
Stunted and stifled my children's emotional growth.
As the victim of generational trauma,
I always had the option to not gaslight,
Or play the martyr's complex with my children.
Yet, I was made to believe that it was the right of my breast milk,
To cross the boundaries of autonomy,
By dictating their life.

I try to forgive my umbilical cord,
For not knowing how to nourish its embryos,
Without bitterness, vengeance, and trauma.
You see,
When I had the right to rip off the fetters of societal norms,
I instead chose to breathe its oxygen as a coping mechanism,
Strangulating the freedom of my children.

I try to forgive my umbilical cord,
For using my son to fill the void caused by my husband.
You see,
As a bereaved woman,
I was forced to use my male offspring to fulfill the requirements,
I looked and expected from my husband.
The fear of abandonment ghosted, haunted my soul,
To the extent of believing that I was the,
"Only permanent season of his soul".

I try to forgive my umbilical cord,
Feeling threatened by the arrival of another woman,
For I believed that my love was the only truest in all forms,
As I thought his wife would rob me of my precious gem.

I try to forgive my umbilical cord,
For growing like a poison ivy all over my son,
Believing that control is the best revenge,
Against the shadow of misfits of my past demons.
In the process of repeating my history,
I wish I understood the geographical boundaries of relationships.

I curse my womanhood,
For bleeding and staining the entire race.
I curse my breast milk 
For obsessing over offspring and enmeshment.

Today the very same enmeshment taught me,
What regret tastes like.
Only if I had cut my umbilical cord earlier,
I would have mapped the road to a healthy relationship.
If motherhood meant dominance, force, and possessiveness,
I wish infertility and miscarriage to be the only happiness.

Was it human to recite the verses of trauma to the future?
Was it motherly to cut off the wings of independence of your fetus?
Fie on my desire to use my children as a pen to fill all the blank papers.

I try to forgive my umbilical cord,
For turning me into a dying ink and a grieving soul,
With a ghost of regret that has never been laid to rest.

I wish I could punish or curse if not at least forgive,
For becoming just another chapter of enmeshment,
Knowing I never can.
I never can...
I never can
As I am still a victim right?

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