On Holding a Smaller Hand than my Own

Awakened by the bleeding again
raging crimson with its angst of rejection
and neglect- that wasteful taste of longing
for something I am not yet fit to be.
This monthly tyrant hides in wait
and I welcome him with gritted teeth-
these horrid, raging pains it brings
that I am grateful to receive.

If again should such a visit lapse,
I hope for just time’s pause.
Never again could I endure
such a miserable lot of luck
as what life prepared this body for-
so I am molded to be this habitual oven
of blessings, a creator of life?

No, not this time. Once again have I
outsmarted this perpetual cycle
to be one chance less responsible
for a new version of “me”
that I for so long have been certain
I do not wish to see… to be.
There is in fact a future of new life
for this woman, but it is not of these means.
I was not molded to supply
such a costly drain of youth
but to build off of that which exists
in its state of utter dependency-
to save a life by extending my own.


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