Chosen to to be a mother by birth but god knows there's plenty of ways to parent on this earth.
Not even thirty, but on bad days I need my cane, and still the doctor can't be bothered to get to the true bottom of my pain.
For I was born to accept suffering, to the stigmatized yet holy anatomy, silently expected like the countless mothers before me in my bloodlines to be comfortable with blood on my hands...
I am expected to be comfortable with blood on my hands where men must learn it.
I have reached familiarity with that which causes most sulking men to find revulsion.
Firsthand red-handed where the men must distance themselves from the action.
Mine is blood shed without violence, without loss, only in absence.
Yet the same fools who claim to understand my body and identity better will squirm if they listen too deep to these words.
They will dismiss the process of perpetual growth and destruction, though it follows the bloodied path they brag to walk in wars.
