It’s twenty-five,
and my eyes are heavier,
my heart fuller,
my pockets emptier.
My mind wanders,
lost in a forest of permanence.
Suddenly,
the stone beneath your foot leaves a mark,
a print for those who come after
to measure themselves against.
There’s permanence.
It’s twenty-five,
and my empty womb weighs me down.
These arms, once holding only lovers,
now ache from carrying the weight of
maybe,
hopefully.
No one is permanent,
not even the ones you create.
My empty arms crave
a soft, fragile soul—
stitched from my flesh,
and the flesh of my love.
And yet, I don’t want it,
not now.
All the women before me
have filled their wombs
and crowned their ring fingers by now,
woven themselves into the fabric
of family, of tradition.
I am not ready
to lose myself between my own legs
both from who goes in
and who comes out of them.
It’s twenty-five,
and the question grows heavier,
echoes louder:
Will my womb be strong enough
to carry my own?
I feel the weight of womanhood:
heavy, suffocating,
a lifetime of servitude.
First, a daughter—
raised to fight the patterns
of generations before,
to break your back
for the ones who tore their wombs apart
to give you this gift of life.
A gift,
lived to break your back
for the lives you’ll gift in turn.
And then, the love of your life—
you get to serve and love them.
Your only taste of reciprocation.
And then— (Moya, water yourself)—
the fruit of your looms.
(Moya, water…)
I’m deathly afraid of what happens after birth.
The death of me? (Moya…)
It’s twenty-five,
and I’m tired already.
I'm ready to hang up my tits and ovaries
on the coat hanger
by the door,
step out of my work slippers
and drop off the red nail polish
by the welcome mat.
Every limb, thought, atom of my body—
borrowed to me for a moment,
never my own.
Excuse me, sir? Ma’am?
I’d like my stuff back.
'hahaha, silly girl, don't you know?—
none of you ever belonged to you.'
(...Moy-?)
Comments