Broken Womb

My womb is full like the moon that moves the tide out. Scattered brokenness revealed, snagged in the nets of connective tissue, lying there, uncovered. In my heavy I'm angered by the nakedness of imperfection on my shore. Entangled in the mess that is life, I try to remove each unyielding piece. Jagged edges cut soft finger tips not designed to handle sharp, broken pieces of monstrous hurt poured from my heart. Past injuries, barbed with intentions to disturb any romantic dream I may fall into, poke me awake, awake, awake.

Full womb of missed fertility ready to spill, the blood, the pain, the open wound of recessed tides laying bare-glistening-sharpness that blinds my eye, so I must look away. Snared and tied up like caught fodder in a spider web I lie, unmoving lump of oozing surrender, the imperfections have won. Incoming tide washes the pain. Sleep descends to push all cuts into forgetful, hidden hallways beneath the green blue water of false contentment. Asleep I wait for broken life to fall away and free me into flight of other world.