I wonder how much my mother charged. I wonder if she would fuck for food.
I wonder if my father paid her or if he raped her or worse, if he loved her.
So, I walk around making men fall in love with me and leaving them. In honor of my mother.
In homage to her broken womb.
Even though we are apart, I am her daughter.
Her wounds are my wounds. Her aches are my aches. Even if I don't know the particulars, the nuances. Blunt force emotions. Her blood, my blood.
It is exhausting overcoming us both.
And when the night is quiet, I rub my belly and whisper to my empty womb,
"I'm sorry."
To my daughters not born, to the unnamed hurt.
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