You’re Not That Young

From Living Poetry

At first, you look forward to the fertile days. You let your hopes fly recklessly, like helium balloons into the atmosphere. You imagine yourself glowing, growing beautifully round and radiant. You let yourself dream of nurseries and names.

Two weeks later, you feel the too familiar twist of emotional knife-sharp monthly cramps stabbing your womb and heart. Another month, another moon gone, like the egg from your uterus in a bloody river of wasted potential.

The sun, once bright with promise, becomes glaringly harsh. The discarded days collect into years you don’t have.

Moon, a wasted egg.

The suns toll like taunting bells.

Fewer days remain.

***

Living Poetry, Go Dog Go Cafe, W3, Twiglets