A land of poison ivy tendrils, purple and dark blue,

creeping across my thighs, folds underneath my belly,

all over my back —

Like fingertips desperately reaching for the sky,

flesh that keeps stretching, breaks on the skin

to make way for the being inside of me.   

Landmines of pus and volcanic acne

pepper my back,

once so smooth and silky

men gasped as I arched and purred

while they gripped my waist with desire —

now a wasteland of ruptured meat    

and tentacles of scar tissue

oozing and pulsating over my spine.

Thunder of pain persistent on my inner thighs,

a concave of chronic ache that carves its way into the night.

Every step becomes torture as I lug this alien body by,

trudging and heaving and dragging as Quasimodo 

perches in between my shoulders and smiles.

This pregnancy has become a prison for my mind:

I want to be free from this ailing, heaving body,

the claws of which keeps me

nailed halfway to the ground — 

a parasite feeding on my flesh,

gnawing at my soul until I am kept silent,

eyes closed, body curled into a clenched fist,

letting days pass by in

dispassion —

Restlessly, tempestuously, agonizingly

waiting for the advent

of a newborn. 

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