A conversation between ‘writer’ and ‘girlfriend’

That red jumper and black shirt were a combo that punched be right in the gut,
I could see the little flashing sign above my head,
Mortal Combat-style.

Today the bruise is still there,
whenever I run my hands through your
soft, red hair

That was on my stomach,
and my uterus is just below

– it’s waiting, as it has been taught to
for you to make me
expand into
a balloon body

– with a child waiting at the
other side.


But what if I prefer
the tapping of a
midnight rush
of writing
at candlelight,

the labels,
the thoughts,
the pen-marks

I can’t write on a baby?
I can’t write all over
its cute face?

I wouldn’t want to erase
either of these narratives

– but perhaps, for you
I might have to.


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