Sunday, February 3, 2013


  It's hard to determine the possibility of what we can accomplish.  Sometimes, even the smallest feats seem impossible to overcome.  We wonder if the pressure of it all will weigh down on us and crush us to death while we pray for relief.  It is the rare man that can say that he is happy.  Happiness usually comes with a price.  Waves of guilt or remorse about what we did or could have done, as if we can predict the future.  I wonder if I would have been a good mother.  After seeing my uterus and tubes on pictures after the surgery, I wonder if they were built to carry life.  The pain that I felt every month destroyed my life for those days, those hours of agony.  I would lay there and try to focus on something else, the sound of someone's voice, as my muscles tighten and flexed in short spasms.  It was everything that I couldn't do not to scream.  In fact, I think that at one point (somewhere in the nineties,) I covered my face with my pillow and let one out.  Picture feeling as if you were being hacked into little pieces.  Your blood framing your shape and pouring from your veins in long and loose spurts.  This killer does not care about you.  He has been watching you for some time and has grown to hate you.  Everyone of your mannerisms makes his hair stand up on the back of his neck.  He does not find you cute or handsome or delicate with your small wrists and everything that you say or intend to say to him to try and get him to stop, won't work.  He just wants you dead and he wants to be able to smile over your corpse.  That was my period-every month.  I should be happy that he's, she's, its gone but I can't help of think of what might have been.  My period was killing me with the numerous drugs that I had to take for the pain and the days that I spent in bed, laying in the fetal position and wishing that I were dead.  But, death never came.  He would hold the knife above my head, but never bring it down and that relief that one may or may not feel when their life is over was never allowed.  It's funny to think that all of this is over with now, and that soon and over time I might forget what I used to go through every month in the name of possibility.  In the name, that one day I would have a child of my very own.  Someone to care for and love.  Someone to watch grow up and discover who they are and what they want to be and someone to take me along with them, by my old wrinkled hand, when we go on walks to the park.  I wonder if it would have been a boy or a girl and I wonder what I would have thought the first time I looked at it?  Amazing.  My first response I would think for the life that came out of me.  Beautiful.  As I held its hand.  Its fingers touching mine.  For now, I only dream of what could have been and it is always the same.  Right before I can see you, I wake up.  My head lifts off of the pillow.  The light from the hallwall rushing past me, as if he is late to catch a bus and I am filled with silence.  I climb back into bed.  My fingers brushing against the sheets.  Cotton-soft and tender.  I clasp my hands together and search for the words to bring you back, but it is over now and all I see is the sharp corners of my bookcase falling from the sky and sticking into the ground.  Kiss me.  I ask.  Lips on lips sink into my pores and at once I am free. 

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