nine months.
a woman can grow a whole life
in that time,
but all i grew
was a headache diary
and a tolerance
for opiates
strong enough
to make me forget
my own name.
i learnt to sleep because
of the drugs
and survive
through the pain,
spent my days off
imagining
what a hammer could do
with a nail.
nine months later,
i finally sit across from him —
the neurologist.
the kind of professional,
who doesn’t need to
review your record
to have a diagnosis.
i tell him where it hurts,
when it comes,
the way it burns.
he tells me no.
he says, i’m wrong.
he types without
looking at me.
do you have any children?
i say,
no.
and without thinking,
without blinking,
without care,
he types:
not yet.
like i’m an unfinished woman.
a body of a waiting room,
inevitable,
late
to an appointment
i haven’t booked.
i leave thinking,
my god,
men will find a way
even in your most
agonising moments
in life
to remind you:
you’re a vessel
with unfulfilled duties,
currently on standby.