The Blueprint

by Rae Giana Rashad

Children anchor you to the home and to the man the algorithm assigned you to.

I promised my love. I promise, my love.

I looked over his shoulder at Daddy staring down at Mama gathered in his arms like his world started and ended there.

“It’s just a body. Nothing special.” If that were true, why did they want it? Why couldn’t it belong to me? Mama called it child’s want, something you grow out of. But the moment I recognized this loop existed, I poked holes at it to find an exit. There were times light shone through the pinpricks, but inevitably, reality was patchwork, sealing and stealing until there was only me and the dark. Like the beginning. End. Beginning . . .

I would never know how it felt to walk boldly because this world wasn’t mine. My tears would never be a weapon. There was no patience for my softness, my wounds, my unraveling. There was no protection for me, a Black girl, no tender touch, no consideration for a delicate exterior. No space to scream.

psychopaths who signed opinion into law.

“We move forward with Proposition Forty-four. A yes vote amends the Order’s abortion policy to include an exception for rape, incest, or to save the life of a pregnant woman,”

I decided then to never love a man, not when his absence singed edges of you, creating different versions that not even your mirror double recognized.

I never wanted children. It was the quicksand that grabbed at us, filled our eyes with grit, and pulled us into nothing more than mama.

“Are you asleep?” James whispered. I pretended I was so I didn’t have to hear him tell me it was time for him to leave.