I could just sit on the mattress,
Dressed to leave the house, staring out
Of the window, ready to catch a bus and
Cry, out of nowhere, without a reason,
With a motor of its own, as if something heated
Was grinding and churning and bubbling in my
Stomach, trying to burst and find expression,
But I wouldn’t know the words for its release.
Should it be? It certainly didn’t feel good.
Where was I going to put it?
What could I possibly do with it?
I thought, I can’t let the mascara tears drop on my white blouse.
I can’t miss the bus, I have to be happy, I have to function.
I know where the pain is in my body.
I never found out whether it is even mine.
And then I thought they’d always find me.
The women and men that brought me forth.
All of their baggage that had come to fruition, unharvested, rotten.
And it had been transferred, womb to womb.
And I felt born and rotten.
Caved in to the sudden sadness that overwhelms and
Engulfs my own world where nothing is that wrong.
But the past, maybe mine, but no, maybe someone
Else’s that tries to fight its way back into life, towards justice.
And I sit there with all these women in my body.
With the unknown yet familiar hands moulding my gut
To reach me and they howl and wail, becoming one
Unswallowable knot in my throat that wrestles with my own voice.
And I know that these women will never let me go.
I was born with them in my flesh, their ghosts and echoes
In my blood and bones, entangled underneath my skin.
I am going nowhere without them no matter how despicable
They might seem.
No matter how much they fucking hurt.
How much they fight and rupture.
They are mine, but I’m not theirs.
And that makes all the difference.