I rip the womb from my body
as if it might consume me.
I will not be devoured.
I will not perform.

When I return to myself,
my love opens her arms.
When I return to myself,
my government slams its doors.
I am unreal
visible only in paperwork,
erased in waiting rooms.

My womb, emptied.
First, denied by the unseen,
then released by her
a doctor carrying a child
as she cut out my ability to carry one.
She was gentle.
She was holy.
She made room.

I try to wake.
I stumble.
My stomach is round, swollen,
my belly button furious
bloated with gas,
sacrificed space
for coiled intestines
and freedom.

These are the lengths I go.
To not bleed for permission.
To sign for existence.
To carve out the pretending.

To finally say. I am.