I remember the phone call
that made me cry.
I'm not good enough,
no matter how hard I try.

They looked at my history,
the records of the abuse.
That's when they told me
that it's no use.

The day my baby's born,
they're taking it from me.
A mommy is something
they won't let me be.

I'll have my baby
to have it taken away.
I won't get to be it's mommy
for more than a day.

I would be a good mommy,
better than mine ever was.
I even threw away the beer,
the blades, and the drugs.

I would love my baby,
it would be mine.
I would be a good mommy,
and we would be fine.

My baby will never know
who I am, what it meant to me,
my loving, gentle face
it will never see.

They tell me it's done,
it can't change.
Getting to keep my baby
is out of range.

No matter how long I beg,
no matter how hard I cry,
they tell me it's not
worth my time to try.

It will be better this way,
the baby will have a better life.
It will never know it's mommy
who was filled with nothing but strife.

It will call another woman mommy,
it will love her, not me.
My baby taking it's first steps,
it's first laugh, is something I'll never see.

Because I'm not good enough.
Because I was abused.
Because my brother raped me.
Because I was used.

The abused becomes the abuser,
and they say this is that case.
They're taking my baby from my arms,
taking it from it's rightful place.

It's my baby,
but they're taking it away.
They told me that
I don't have a say.

I remember the phone call
that made me cry.
I'm not good enough,
no matter how hard I try.