23 August 2016

A Hystory Of Ovaries.

When I’m in pain
I like to complain

It so happens that
For the last
One decade

My body leaks
For days

It’s a raw deal
Extra blood
Extra sweat
Extra tears

I think I was given
Too much woman
I keep having to
Give her away
In spurts
Ever so often

And it hurts
Like a bitch
I asked about it,

It isn’t a glitch
It will always have to be
Exactly – like this

It promptly arrives
Like my internet bill
Full of mixed feelings
Every 11th of the month

Or too often
Like a faded, forgotten
Familiar face
Shows up
46 days late

Turns my back
With exquisite pain
Takes shape of the world map
On my bed sheet, stained

Pours incessant
Like rain on my parade
Which feels like home
Because I am
A monsoon baby
It’s in my veins

I wonder
If the body is a temple,
Many would disagree,
Ask me to leave
Myself at the door

Am I a house, a strange home
Where the staircase hurts
When the faucet drips

I wonder
Does it tremble
Out of anger
There’s no one living in it

No one will see
In the dark
There was
Bloodbath in the halls

Warm palms on my back
Relax, sit back
Woman contorted
It will all be duly sorted

Maybe because
I like red too much,
Oh wasn’t it
Something to do with the moon

My hands smell like earth

The war inside woman
Is a silent pogrom
Of lovely her against her
Lovely self

Equally stubborn

I wait
Without blame
For the leak to fix
For it to cease,
Unpinch, to breathe
Through musty windows
For it to leave

I never did ask for
An extra side of
Blood, sweat, and tears

But here I am, I was
and will be, with
Too much woman,
Attached to my existence.

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