Stragen

Someone take these little moons away from me
before I choke on their cancer
and blood clots disguised by
a steely grimace,
a promise of fertility.

Where is the tide, mother?
I haven’t seen the sea in years and I worry
that I’m becoming less of a woman for it.
Why do you hide, mother?
While I resort to ingesting your false prophets
in misplaced prayers for the return of the flood.

I’m on the shore, screaming your name
until my throat falls in on itself.
And once I forget your name
I write others in the sand;
the names of every woman I’ve ever known,
a séance met with punitive silence.

Lately I find myself
lost in the circles and cycles
that line my epicentre. Hours wasted
scouring for some synchrony, some solidarity.

In a world whose beauty is dictated by
patterns and harmony, I fear
                                                                I am nothing more than
                                                                                                            the black hole of
                                           chaos and disorder
                                                                                        that flows from my ovaries.

(“At least they didn’t cut you open.”
And she’s right, they didn’t.
Not like her; forced to lie indecent,
exposed to their sadistic ventures.)

But I cut myself open

once, to find the congenital defect
that poisoned my organs or the status quo.
Again to tear them out. Start all over.
Tabula rasa; a hollowed-out carcass.
Again to crawl inside my yellowing skin
like a weathered tent called home.
Again and again and again and again

until I’m dizzy and sick
and stumbling and bleeding
into my own Jackson Pollock.

I pry open my abdomen,
letting mordant tar ooze from the cracks
of my shattered body
onto the bloodied canvas. Pervasive black
erases the scarlet proof of my existence,
of my passion, of my humanity.

All because of these little white moons.

Just hold your head back, open your throat and swallow.
Don’t think of the life you might be poisoning.
Don’t think of the knife that’s not usually a knife
but some pencil lead, a lighter, my own nails,
the hidden edge of a blade raked against my face to feel more
like a woman.

Time for your next strip of pills.
But don’t worry,
your body may never heal.
Emily Adams, 20, UK.