Was it worth it?
Only 3 weeks old and I have a name.
Embryo.
Week 4 I’m hard at work creating my umbilical cord and basics of my body. By the end of this week I’m the size of the period at the end of this sentence.
Not the one you just missed.
Week 5: my heart is beating… you’re still drinking.
Week 7: you’re sick. And it’s not the hangover you thought I was.
Week 9: congratulations! You have the honor of hearing my heartbeat, like you care. You’re still on some strangers couch with the strong sent of smoke on your sweater.
I’m the size of the olive in your martini from this morning.
Week 10: New name. Fetus. I finally look somewhat human...My brain is trying to create 25,000 neurons every minute but you’re making it so hard mom…
Week 11: my vital organs are all there. So my risk of defects should be decreasing and become less susceptible to outside influences... so much for that
Your headache? That’s me. You still don’t know the pain I’m in...
Week 12: I can swallow. Good thing I’m not actually using my lungs. Unlike yourself. “Oh, just another drag... What’s the harm?” I guess you never learned the golden rule.
So here we are, week 21. I’m the size of your beer.
Two weeks later… My lungs aren’t ready... 11 ½” I weigh the size of the Harry Potter book I imagine you reading to me. And I am as long as one too. I hope you enjoyed all that sleep you have been able to have... I’m coming...
Child birth classes? Didn’t even cross your mind. And I’m losing more and more of mine. Just keep inhaling that precious smoke.
My brain looks like the mold in the back of your fridge.
I felt so alone before, but at least I was in my own space. Somewhat protected.
Well here I am, in this world already addicted.
You raised the stakes. So tell me mom,

was all that fun worth it?

I want over and under my skin,
and inside of every pore.
I want to lose myself in you,
and feel completely raw.

Every day.
The everyday.
You see it every day.
The twitch and reel and marble movement
As turgid blood surfaces to face,
Flows to operate stiff shoulders.
Backs hunch as soon as they're alone.
And they are alone.
Surrounded by lovers that
Love in word only.
They chew their nails and cross their ankles.
Uncross.
And look around.

Spring. Could you imagine?
Gear, wire. Did he say?
Bolt, frame. Isn't he?
Ratchet. And then what did he say?
Screws.
Rotor.
A bunch of ****.
Oil.
Oil.
Oil. Oil. Oil.
Plug in.
Silence.
It moves.

We move a head in times of
Strain. To signify
Exact measures.
Twist on axis
With perfect posture.
Unnoticed frameworks bar our days.
We are brass.
The more crass are silver, gold.
And the days are polish. Or maybe sand.
Soon there are no mistakes.
The veneer cakes without flaw.
We do not acknowledge.
We are not caught.

For little hours though, there are kinks.
Pauses.
Errors.
Open the clockwork face.
What is stuck?
A look around.
The gears that grind us to cognition
Are jammed by a fly-body
Of soul.
Soon, soon, sooner than ever
It will be crushed.
So gears might continue,
Might make room for the everyday.