I’m afraid for my body. I was born to share it with something. To someday support the breathing of a small fish with ten fingers who will feed through the inside of my navel and leave footprints on my heart. Literally and figuratively.

Mother’s hearts are made to be broken. I break every day over missed appointments, a lover’s unreturned calls, and career crisis. I have no pain threshold for something defenseless that looks to me for life and in avoidance of death, and fear, and everything bad in the world that I can’t even protect myself from.

But none of these are why I am afraid for my predetermined fetal-home of a body. I am a woman. I get it. I understand that the majority of decent love I will fall into will be with men who will speak of their future children. Far off they will see themselves settled in with a woman who they don’t realize reminds them of their mother. This is a deal-breaker for many. And not a usual problem seeing as though most women are okay with the idea of stretching. Stretching….and stretching, in the name of baby.

The point. I am afraid for my body because I am a person who has never been admitted to a hospital. Never been opened or sewn shut, never smelled my own blood or lost feeling under anesthetic. Always too aware and padded up. So what then, will I do when I am bulbous and layed in a room of spectators, needles, and bleach?

Ugh…don’t mind me, just trying to look forward to bringing life instead of trying to avoid it like the Grim Reaper.

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