inchoate
this woman is paid to talk to me
i'm afraid to show any love or hate

the room is flourescent, inchoate inarticulate
fear of something and yes, sisterhood-
the roar of sterilized machinery
hums there is no other lover

i felt something large detach
from inside, tender and someplace
I think of often and have never seen
and i raised my eyes to the
collective unconscious to catch it
as it flew, i said, i'm sorry

it hurt so much i thought i was dying
no one said a word; the silence was so eerie as I stood up to go lie down
i couldn't walk without tears

this is the room full of
whispers, where ugly green makes us feel like strangers.
separate from each other.

this blood isn't my blood
but I did make it, with phone calls,
and with orange juice and Tylenol I'll fix it
i fix everything.

nobody knew what i was doing that day
until I came home and slept two days, woke up, rolled over, started screaming.

frantic phone calls, bundled up in blankets by others, morphine next and it buzzed.
still afraid to ask for help from anyone.
still afraid of what i'd done.

someone else's words followed me for days like sticky insects
this is the room with the wolfmother wallpaper
this is the room with the wolfmother wallpaper

and i knew it was true but i couldn't see it.
it happened.
was over.
i do not think it affected me,
yet, one year later i find i do not know myself at all anymore.
other things have happened since, bigger, more painful and
i am taking back my body; it's hard, the hardest thing i've ever done
almost

i can only touch myself with someone else's hands.