I have been quiet too long.
I have been silent all of these years when you did exactly what you wanted to do. I was unwilling to talk the first time you bled like an open artery, when I thought that whatever it was I had done to upset my body so, was the worst mistake I was ever going to make. I didn’t utter one word when you began to oscillate between weeks and months, when you realized you could choose the time of your nurturing a child, and you found ways to surprise me. I quietly suppressed the heat in my throat when you decided to cheat me, humiliate me in front of all my friends will red paws, widened eyes, knowing that the secret that I had so carefully concealed was out, naked and writhing for everyone to notice.
I hurdled past fetus feet, when you first contracted with a wave that I had no understanding of. I swallowed aspirin when I was told do, when I felt that bringing my legs to walk was the hardest thing I ever had to do. I was silently standing, every single time, when I felt claws gnawing on my insides, like a metal pin, poking its firm stab into my intestines. As it pulled down on my nerves, and squeezed out the little life in me I had saved up in the last few months.
I was so fucking silent, the first time the doctor told me my chemical blood, was far less bloody than was required for me to become a mother. When I listened to water balloons rising and falling inside my eggs, I did not utter a single word to break your meditation. When I injected my sugar blood with all that you were supposed to give me, I did so with hope and dignity, knowing that no matter what, you were, after all, my muscle. You were a part of me, and I could not write you a letter addressing you just like you cannot address your lover, because some things are not separate from your body. They are not unmoving ice or rock, they are intimate with tangling veins and hair, and they are all that reside inside you apart from your shame. I knew there was no way I could make myself wary of you; one cannot be distrustful of the only object that has treated you like it was your owner. You cannot deny your body the respect it deserves. You can never weigh your dreams against what you are going to lose. You can never let your strong grasp loosen from your friend’s wrist. Your longest and best friend.
But when your arms began to digest the only creation that I have ever been proud of, I caught hold of my scream inside my stomach so that you would hear the noise I wanted to make. I staggered from the bleeding, my legs grinding my feet downward until all I felt was the cool ground around my ankles, my calves, my waist, and finally, my lungs. When you were finally scraped clean by the doctor, I felt warm tears in my eyes in a long time. Tears that I wanted to dissolve in blood and feed to you, for you to expel at your whim. My longest friend, you were the cause of weeks of lying in bed, speaking through gritted teeth, wondering if I could have walked a little less, wondering if I should’ve eaten something different, wondering if it was me who killed my limbless child. I became a murderer before I became a mother.
You left me no choice, no choice to decide whether or not I could face my family, my arms a heavy dead weight of shady boundaries, empty and death-filled. But you left me one choice; you made me choose between my life or the life I wanted. And now, I have given up knowing enough, and started to speak outwardly, to my husband, to my parents, to my friends. I have been talking all this while, spewing words into ears that have not had the burden of you. But inside I have been silent. But I know that tomorrow, when the doctor asks me if I am sure about a hysterectomy, I will say yes on my inside. I will finally say yes. And we will no longer have to be a part of each other.