Roundness,

Softness curling at the edges,

At the dredges of who She was

That was smothered by who She will be.

Gasps,

She grasps at the sheet beside Her

While the thing inside Her

Writhes with newfound life.

Maybe a wife,

Maybe alone,

But atoning this is not.

She’s hot, She’s sweating,

And then She’s throwing up,

These screaming voids,

The noise alone would kill a man.

She is split open

By a knife, a life, the harrowing scythe of pain

And everything cracks

Like an egg before frying.

She’s crying and She can’t stop,

Make it end.

Her rod of life begins to bend

And the block is gone but now,

Now She hears it,

The first breath of that flower,

Her power,

That thing She grew.

She thought She knew it

But it knew Her better.

The consternation of a name

Amid the shock of saying “girl.”

She...

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