I was a door without a lock.
They came in without knocking.
I was a floor.
I was a stove.
I was a woman-who-nurtures-even-when-she’s-broken.
I was a woman-with-milk-and-weeping.
A woman-who-holds-silence-to-her-chest.
A woman-with-flesh-that’s-no-longer-her-own.
Flesh given, flesh taken, flesh put back and forgotten.
I went to sleep with shame and guilt
in each of the four corners of the bed.
I was a cry that made no sound.
I was “come on, it’s not that bad.”
But it was.
I swallowed my tongue until I no longer had a mouth.
And when a new one grew, it was full of fangs.
I was not born from a rib.
I was born from a burn.
And women emerge from me now.
With voices.
With locks.
With everything.
