They love you
when you’re quiet.
When you’re curled.
When you’re theory.
When you’re womb-shaped and wordless
and not asking for breakfast.

They love you
in bumper sticker font.
In ultrasound grayscale.
In the sermon, the slogan,
the sanctified soundbite.

But once you breathe?
Once you cry?
Once you need shoes,
a school, a sandwich,
a mother who isn’t working three jobs
to prove you deserve to exist?

Suddenly,
you’re a burden.
A budget line.
A welfare case.
A mouth too loud
for the gospel of small government.

They say “life begins at conception”
but apparently ends at birth.
Because after that,
you’re on your own, kid.
No milk.
No housing.
No healthcare.
No help.

They’ll fight for your fetus
but ghost your childhood.
They’ll legislate your mother’s body
but not her dignity.
They’ll pray for your soul
but won’t pay for your lunch.

Womb service only.
No follow-up care.
No cradle-to-career.
Just a one-time offer
of moral outrage
and a very short leash.

If you’re pro-life,
prove it past the placenta.
Otherwise,
you’re just cosplaying compassion
with a Bible and a budget cut.