Once Broken Twice Mine (and 2 heavy 2 hold)

He wanted me to fit inside. Wanted to carry me everywhere he went – have my cycle sync with one who does not have one. And I really did try. You gotta believe me. I tried! One foot in; then a shoulder. A hand pushing aside one vital organ after another…to make room for the entire weight of me. I spoke softly to his heart, “I promise mine won’t be too much trouble. She’s happy with just a designated area in the corner…of your room.” Please. Make room.  The woman parts of me tried to pair with the man parts of him – whispering softly, “I know that I am the one who’s been beckoned inward, but it makes more sense, this time, in this area, for you to slide on inside.  Just g’on now…slide in…you’ll fit.”  But, of course, they could not remain soft (it is so hard to fit into an erect place – like moving furniture between permanent status).  Perhaps it was the whispering?  I crouched and shriveled. Bent and contorted. Maybe head first? Shit! That didn’t work either. I would yell for him to pull. Keep pulling! Now, shift! Damn it! Was I sweating? Or were his insides attacking me? A spike in fever is often times the initial sign of infection…the body’s way of defending itself against the unfamiliar. And I wondered (actually, I panicked)…what antibodies did his mother pass onto him? It could mean the difference between death and thriving.

This part. No! That part! Again. Again… And just before giving up… Finally. I broke. And I fit. One part of me parallel to the other. Feet next to gut. Head next to hips. Funny what you can observe about yourself…when you are beside yourself. All of that bending. All of that maneuvering. I was a handful – a body-full. And then some. I asked him if he’d taken notes so that we could possibly retrace our steps – a backward motion on how to put myself back together again. We.  We?  “No”, he said. “The putting back together is never a backward motion. Forward. Only forward. And anyway, you said it yourself. You are a handful – so much so that I could not, dared not pick up a pencil…to take notes.” His face twisted in shrouded annoyance.  My body was broken in two.  Well, ain’t that a bitch? How then, were the parts of me supposed to get out? (It takes so much more effort just to get out). How then, was I supposed to be sewn back together? Cauterized back together?  Glued back together?

He breathed just one sigh of…relief? Just one. Then told me…I was too heavy…to hold. And now. I think I’ve forgotten how to hold my own weight. But please. Don’t help me. Just watch. And remember. To take notes…


Photography by Seth Doyle

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