Upon the bed,
we make a strange set of parenthesis,
our hips arched outward and away from each other,
backs touching at the shoulder blades, but only slightly.
Inside, my ovaries are white hot with the need to expel,
and I trace the pain onto the sheets with my clenched fists.
How could I sleep like this? How could anyone?
Bathed in sweat, lubricated, laboring to be a better machine.
I'm sure you smell the blood on me,
feel the ripples of my body's miserable contortions.
Still, your eyes don't open.
Your dreams are a mystery, unlike this pain,
which is wholly, utterly mine,
and no one, not even you, can take it from me.

07/09/2013

Posted on 07/09/2013
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