My words are my children,
Entrusted in my care—
I have a nostalgic
Nay, maternal fear of people judging them.

My apron strings can only stretch so far before
I snatch them from sunlight and guard them from
life.
I want to encourage, love them;
but now I am afraid
To share
or expose them to the dangerous open air.

So they rock in the fetal position,
Holed away in the rank basement of my chest cavity—
Forever buried and protected
But resentful, restless

Stir crazy.

So they pace around my body
Racing down my arms
And up each disc of my spine.
They stumble hysterically searching for an escape—
Beat on my skull with fierce desperation.

Maybe the headache is why I finally released them,
Maybe I realized that the only way they can grow,
Learn,
Evolve,
is to be ushered into the sunlight
and the open air.

So don’t mind my grimace as you uncap your inky red scalpel,
This is my leap of faith
My attempt at
Good
Parenting.

And I will
scream as you make your first incision
Into my words, thoughts
My babies,
My ego.

For, even if they are perfect,
I’m not.