It can’t only be me
stomach distended with cramps after kids or eating something I shouldn’t like a bread or a bit too much
it can’t only me be that sleeps on her arms
it can’t only be me in disbelief and denial
at the blood.
It can’t only be me who trips on her own life or her own traps or her own fears.
Maybe I’m not sick of it so much as I’m just sick of how I’m thinking about it or maybe I’m bleeding soon and forgot. Or maybe I’m forgetting soon and bleeding.
Have you ever dumped a cup of red clotty menstrual blood into water and seen the red mystery of it and felt some feeling with no name?
It can’t just be me who feels into the life awe burdensome beast of being in a body that has breasts and a dark womb that I can’t see that makes small lives and disposable organs and then acts normal as if it’s all “tale as old as time” but then again
Have we lived or does living invoke death and all this is actually tiny daily yin yangs any old way you slice it?
It can’t be me alone who forgets and forgets to feel and floats face down in the hens coming home to roost, the tension of opposites embodied in the moment after moment after moment of all of this.
Maybe getting out of prison and laying on the ground
maybe just being out of prison is enough and you don’t have to make something of your freedom.
Maybe do nothing or maybe that’s a cop out, energy on my life wasted because I didn’t become anything but everything.
Maybe to have a heartbeat is enough.
Maybe I don’t know how to improvise and integrate all of this but maybe it’s not only me.