August 24, 2015

“I did not want a life with the man. To have a life with him was to slowly cut off pieces of myself, thick chunks that bled spontaneously and left noxious black splotches on the dining room floor. It would be no better than giving birth again and again, my body weakening with each fertile incarnation, until finally, my spine snapped and my uterus ruptured, became prolapsed, went falling from between my legs only to be caught in his cupped hands. What kind of life was that, his holding my sex parts in perpetuity when I was capable of cradling myself?”


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