It must have been a man who said don’t cry over spilled milk

A father

Or a brother

Or a son

Of a breastfeeding mother

Because what else am I supposed to do with this rage

The last thing I needed

On top of everything else

I finally got four hours of sleep

And I’m drenched

And the bed is drenched

And it’s dripping

Leaking

Spilling from my breasts

Down my stomach

Down my thighs

And the babies need

And cry

There is no pause

No moment

Just for me

To clean

To change

And that’s fine

That’s correct

A baby so little should not know to be patient

Or mindful

Or empathetic

Not yet

For then it would need to know about others

How much weight

Would you ask

A box made of thin glass

To carry

It is not their need that enrages me

It is that I am so very human

So limited

In what I can give

Here I am

A puddle of a woman

And the world says

Be happy, be kind, be patient

Nurture

Comfort

Have self control

Such that it looks effortless

Natural

Womanly

Motherly

And the world should know better

Should have learned and grown

Since babyhood

That a woman is a woman

And a God is a God

And although there may be some impression

That a mother might be something inbetween

Creator of life

Always forgiving

Unconditionally loving

A careful crafter of her own image

Still so willing of giving free will

She is not

She is a person

With a gift

She could have never earned

But she will always try to pay for

And even as she cries, silently screams, and rages

She will always be so grateful

But she could be even more

If the world had not so much relied on a single man’s point of view

But rather looked for themselves

If they had seen surely they’d think

How can you ask the mule

To not feel

The weight

It’s carrying

And to not worry

While it performs

The careful balancing act

Of carrying something so heavy

And that fragile box of thin glass

On such a very tired back

So it must have been a man who said don’t cry over spilled milk

The ring leader

Or the animal trainer

Or the ticket buyer

Whatever label nature cares nothing about

A man who must have thought that he had bought

A donkey

Or a horse even

And insisted that the mule pay the difference for such betrayal of his innocence

It must have been

It must have been a man

Who has never been the mule

Or even the cow

Never the machine

Never the mother

Never the cup

Never the milk

Only ever a fragile box

Made of thin reflective glass

Precious

Beloved

But inevitably

Cracked