Eggs for Sale

Time and time again he whispered into my ear and tugged on the loops of my jeans.

“I want to give you a baby.”

The driving force of growing into your thirties has its perks, but the craving of a child is unstoppable and at most times inconvenient.

I’m not sure what led to our passion that night, but it was sexy; the kind you read about in books and tighten your legs to during movies.

Hands: everywhere.

Bodies covered in salted steam, hips swinging from the pendulum of momentum.

The release of him into me was enough to remind me what I was after. I absorbed his sperm with my subconscious like a mushroom blooming in the dark.

Babies.

I held him there, refusing to let him slip away.

All that was wrong would be wrong again.

You see, we were no longer dating. We hadn’t been for months. But as you age, you see yourself very differently alone. There’s a sudden need for routine; a craving for the familiar. One thing was for certain: I wasn’t curious anymore. I’d been with many men, hardly one more surprising than the next. And it wasn’t the need for sex. Sex was more laborious than ever and I was aging. Twisting the skin on your neck and near your underarms is enough to make someone reevaluate habits and reaffirm self-doubt. One thing is for certain, if you are aging, so are your eggs.

Many times over the past few months I had decided I might be alone and old forever. Selfishly, no one to give me the gift I desired most; to create a life.

All I once I sat up in the bed and coughed to release his life from entering mine.

Is this what I have come to? Hormones become a Human?

My not-yet-thirty year-old body is not yet ready to be responsible for the passion of a one-night stand with an exhausted lover!

 

…But maybe tomorrow.

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For Her

 

Build a legacy.

For the women who created this body deserve recognition

The women who rendered this mind deserve rights.

They created art. They created a dream.

For her

And me.

The Woman in My Body

There is a woman in my body ashamed of all the men

who wants to rinse her skin clean and her uterus from within.

She wants to scrape the cells from the walls and burn it in a sage.

And light a fire within her soul to settle all the rage.

A cleansing of her body – that would do the trick

Fix her right up from her skin to her future kin.

She wants to tell her younger self to respect body and time.

She wants to tell her younger self to be nicer to all kinds.

There is a woman in my body itches to come out.

She doesn’t like the dance anymore and the music’s all played out.

There are no more drums in her circle and the candles all burned out

so don’t pray for her with all your little doubt.

There is a woman in my body she loves the way she feels;

her curves along her waist her thighs her pelvis and her heels.

She could moan for hours if she did it all alone

She knows her spots, her points, her pulls with every angle and every groan.

This woman in her body, she wants to break out

She wants to feel again without a male weighing her down.

We are.

She teaches me to be patient and love with raw emotion. She reminds me that being hurt in its purest form does not mean you are innocent or too emotional, but that deep pain exists where true love used to live – even breathing hurts. Every emotion must be felt; absorbed, received and answered. It’s real. Being hurt for us “hypersensitive” personas is a lot more than meets the eye. 

We are the dreamers, the doers, the distracted, and the dramatic. We live for the light, color, and love and bring heart to the world.

Do I Dream?

Do I dream?

These moments, still.

Clips. 

Reels produce highlights of a mostly foggy film. 

Am I awake? 

These images,

a nightmare collection

Of the year I possessed all my womanly affectations.

My country torn, my body worn, a pleased possession of a man with scorn.

Do I dream

All these images

Of a nightmare collection?

Master of her Memories

​She dips slowly past the elastic of her pants. Let’s her hand linger with a quick lick of the lips while she tries to remember the good taste and pleasure of him. Back and forth her thoughts race trying to pull back the memories. They lead her in circles and swell with rage. Anger consumes her. The memory is not real. He lied. She spins faster in circles trying to push him out. One last time — get him out! Must…Move…Out. 

Get. Him…

Ouuuuuu!

A howl of relief.

A deep breath.

And he’s gone.

Mother Knows Best

Has Mother told you you’re worth everything and more? I bet she never told you about women like this one; a bigger fish to score. A woman completely off the market to settle and yet meddles. 

I bet Mother warned you of promiscuous women, told you never to trust. This one doesn’t sleep around with men, she prefers nature to be her lust. Mother told you to be polite. This one doesn’t know manners and makes fun of your standards with sweet laughter.

This woman, a wild thing, many moons faced with heavy burdens that have blessed her with a humble grace, wild taste, and a grateful place. Peacefully poised as she is her own strength. Mother is too frantic with her face and uses her toys to dictate in arrogant ploys.

Mother doesn’t know this type of woman, but Father does.

Was it father who taught you about pleasure? what a woman wants? He walked you through the basics and that you must never get caught. 

Did he mention all women are the same? Could he describe the many he came across in his day? Perhaps you told your father she was not like them, but he’d correct you in a privilege, matter-of-fact way, that she would be the same as even the sweetest girls had been. 

Mother might have interrupted once again because she couldn’t pass it up. She probably said you could please anyone with your good looks and truly decent love.