Dear baby, there is no better externalization of your soul than in your own child. It is living, existing proof of your immortality, a chance for you to live forever - and never. Yet in my womb abides a cold place where emotions cannot penetrate, bonding cannot initiate, and love fails to infiltrate. So you see my dilemma. In my womb exists lonely nights, heartfelt cries, and the painful words of those disappointing lies I've been fed all my life. The baby yes', the baby no's, and the unreal amount of I love yous. In my womb exists the scars inflicted by parents I had to raise and a childhood of shattered dreams and fall shorts. In my womb there is all the misery, tenderness, and vulnerability that I refuse to show. It is where the seed grows when I expect and they reject. When the lies spill from their drunken cups and fall onto my already stained lips and cause me to choke. That seed is planted in me. This spawn was rooted in Brooklyn, and like that lonely tree, it grew there. These are the fruits of my womb. Not to be romanticized by the fluffiness of pregnancy. Not to be praised as a life giver or the place of love and conception. My womb is a harsh, painful, scary place. Dark and deserted. It is no place for a child. And yet one has come from there. So what will become of him?