My Sullen Womb
Embraced by the falling waters extruded by the vigilant above, I sensed the upcoming warmth flowing inside the womb I questioned if it was ever in belonging to me. As each graceful, leaking trace stung my tissues, I progressed into becoming the repulsive foe once sworn by me that its letters would never encounter my unsettling cottage.
That one piece unveiled itself to my forsaken land as a tidy, furnished print that was to be decorated as one desires. It bears a truth within; that this print is to have its qualities stripped away to remain its sublimely-assembled self.
I faintly crawled through the road of uncertainty as the flickering lights obscured my vision. If knowledge is holy, I must be sacrilegious. Yet, it was the same book-preachers that bestowed such putrid fruits onto my garden.
My curse is my miracle is my benightedness is my doctrine. But I fear to hex this cursedness into bliss and my miracle into sorcery, this benightedness into light, and my doctrine into inculcation.
I was told that I am the production of one and many things: Madonna, Magdalene, Cyprian. Every womb is to choose the bodies of their carriers bearing that. This intricate chamber, with two eyes never learning from the setting sun, has been the abode to each and every ingrate being. I heard too many elegies dedicated to the rancor, fallen house, yet no one asks why the house has fallen; why it is rancor.
The space feels undesired: Born to be of paramount service, but I loathe exploitation. Thus, this space has decided to take less inside, its legs folded instead of spread, hoping its owner would be cognizant of the blood-soaked phantoms it has been discarding on the way to the pulsating heart.
This exodus, though, is the departure of the captive soul as it endeavors on reaching out to repossess the abducted veracity within and without, wearing a dragon’s fury once it suspects the becoming of a livestock.
And sometimes, my heart sinks denser as my womb contacts the bloody illness. The illness of thirteen moon cycles, the touch of the rushing tides. My most valuable treasure bears a gut sickness, a flesh of cracked spines. I fall, not as softly as the petals of a waning iris. I fall as I bleed and as this treasure weeps. I feel it has used something against me.
It is of utmost fright to me that this body, as it understands itself as a machine, misreads me as one, too. As it grows ailing and dreadful, it envies my rational separation from it and clutches my pale hands. As it grows sullen, it envies my perception of the colorful shades residing in between the black and white. I fear that if so, I can never escape this form and return back to none. For even in the zero and the infinite realm, my ribcage terminates the eternally growing time and ceases my existence of one and only, not one and many.
I fear that it is my most delineating attribute, yet there is no solemn vow in our imminent union.
It moves not around freely, for it is the elevated railroad that is to commemorate the sprouting of a usurper as it plans to stretch the walls wider, and the layers thinner. It designs a scheme to vanquish the same piece of land that treated the smallest of movements as portent.
I recline with my hair occupying the median and the periphery. It is but the white that seems to carry on an ancestral gospel. History, as it seems, cannot escape me. Or rather, even death shalt never allow my leather to secede the lace.
This sheet that I enthrall seems to be annexed by a tree’s forefather, running on a ruthless, obdurate vocation. The mulberry satin, devising hostility against the forthcoming of the tenth crusade, is made to be stained with the scarlet that was once penetrated with mahogany. This penitentiary, crowded with sand and time, is precisely the unspoken lad.
But he is preserved, shielded by the trees and the time-shifting breeze of this age. He is not one, he is all. The bearer, the begrudged, the sycophant. The first creator and second, continuous abetment against the prenatal chamber.
Our shriek was questioned, and still is, as if no trenchant Cupid spiked us with his arrows. As if the sheets weren’t cunningly made to mirror every color on the continuum.
Our shriek was questioned, and still is. If the system of lads is in need of a contrasting response, then next time, I’ll picture my blood coming out like it is the sea foam Aphrodite arose from, but don’t wonder why this obstreperous pedigree ends in drowning all your reigning wood till it dissolves.
