I would never make a good mother. My wrists are slit open, actively bleeding years of suppressed trauma and agony; I would stain my baby’s white nappies. My screams are too loud because I preserve them; I never scream for a helping hand, instead they drown in me and with me, therefore my screams would kill my child and they’d always echo in his ears until they gently vibrate in his whole body and he’d slaughter manking. Who am I to mother a child when I long to be taken into a womb of every female figure I come across and be mothered? When I crawl into their flowers and shove my whole tongue and give head in?

I would never make a good mother, I died when I was 12. I died with the three embryos I flushed down the drain . I know my father wouldn’t make a good father too because of the audacity he had to insert his manhood on my flower and plant them. I know my mother never made a good mother too because after my father did the gardening on my body, she would wash his feet and make him ginger bread and rooisbos tea as if to praise him.

I died when i was 12. I’ve been moving this corpse from point to point, bed to bed, sheet to sheet, therapist to therapist, from pills to wine that makes the red infected blood running through it. I would really never make a good mother.