Open Wound

In the afternoon I began to bleed.

Then the real estate agent came, to start making deals to put the house on the market. Their house, the house that she and her ex bought together long ago. I hid in my study, trying not to overhear the small talk and business talk and the talk of relationships dissolving. Nostalgia for some past or another that I never had.

Later we went to the hospital to visit her sister and new nephew. I held the child, just one day old, wanting more than anything to lift my shirt to feed him. Her sister spoke of the birth, of the pressure and the sensation and the pain and the opening up in ways she had never before conceived or experienced. I yearned to open up in a warm bath, I wanted to push and to have my breath heavy and fast, I wanted the scream and the birth and the agony and the ecstasy. More than a yearn, a hunger, a emptiness, insatiable. I read Kristeva on the drive back.

Home again, red wine and more cotton padding. Today I mix and mould my thesis-child with cramps and hormones and craving for dairy and salt and iron. I want to taste rust and eat cheese and lick the tears trickling down my chest.

Another pro-creation myth.