I am a woman and I speak.
I am a woman with lines on her face and I speak.
I am a woman with lines on her face and scars on her belly and I speak
with the voice of a mother
I said, a mother
once by a scalpel
once by the violence of a baby’s head
a woman who writes and plays guitar with hands scarred
and aged from cleaning up shit
a woman who called herself ‘expecting’
but didn’t expect to be split,
body and soul,
half the precious young personality blasted away
I speak with the voice of a woman who knows what it means
to have her choices removed
to be so tired she can barely walk
and keep walking
to be so sick she can barely speak
I speak with the voice of a woman who knows how to
and who is ready to die when it is necessary.
p class=”pubcredit”>(First published in Cottonmouth)