{push}

And so it has come to this.

To shove.

To move, to make, to wish and to create space. I gave birth and I took death by the balls. I gave birth to my son and to my own self. I went up inside there, the inner sanctum, the factotum, the fact and the heart of the matter, and I pushed it out. I heaved ho. I swelled, welled, bellowed and slid. The push. I pushed my pussy inside out. I curved and cursed. I crushed myself. Made love to myself with someone else in mind, made myself love. My worth. Not rooted in my work but my wreck. A spur in my neck, a spur to my sides, a bur under my blanket and a yelp from my gut soul. Birth. Broken. Utterly torn apart. Cut into like a pomegranate, granulated like a sick cell, sand under skin and lanugo, crepuscule, nocturnal knot. Baby wreaths, locked in smiles. A sniper's snatch, stretch, extended hand with my joy in its sights. Going blind from too much housework, whore's work, where's my velvet handcuff, my gold star, the sweet scent of myself. Ridden and hidden here, in this work. For my son to decode when I am old.

For you to read. To be rude. To excuse myself, now run.