The Feminine Curse

I am sick,

she thinks.

Of honey lemon IVs, of doctors' promises and get-well-soon schemes, of stories of this also happened to my niece

I am sick,

she thinks.

Of false sympathies, of stuffed teddy bears bearing barren bracelets claims of miss you get well soon I came I visited you in your despair

I am sick.

But I am not gone.

I just needed an escape from your overarching shadow grumbling angry day after day telling me I am good for nothing but a coffin princess setting tables digging graves and feeding babes

I am sick.

Of you telling me what to do how to live what to take what to give and when now now NOW NOW

I am sick.

I just need a moment to breathe

Give me oxygen, a moment of reprieve, even rabbits take moments to bound about in glee

I am sick.

Of patriarchal demands of wandering hands of moments of kiss me miss me be damned of saying no and them hearing yes of confessional booths that imprison the soul more room for the devil than a girl on birth control

I am sick.

Of babes left alone of mothers with no home of children wandering wandering wandering to atone for some prejudicial judge who thinks a woman's role is to carry the weight of the world in a fist-sized home

I am sick.

I crawl bare-boned from the womb of my soul, wondering how this world can be home at all, when a matter of physicality is the death bell toll

I am sick.