My birth was not an occasion for celebration,
in fact, it came most uninvitingly:
one of eight other children – I was just a number.
I put a strain on the world; another straw
on the already broken camel’s back,
nothing but a vacuum of precious materials
like food, water, and love – things other people needed.
Kept alive: for what reason?
I cost my mother more than I could offer;
not a chance of being of any use
to the six billion other straws
of which some actually have lives,
of which some are satisfied.

You must set me to the wayside
before I can form my words,
before I can form my thoughts,
before I can form my cries:
the product of my bellyaches.
Lay me naked at the doorway
of an abandoned church and
do not worry: while I still breathe,
I am already dead.