Blood Clots | Poems that Suck

The 'feminine mystique' is
a river of wine-red blood
which flows like rivers
from between my rolling
thigh.

Of contractions in my
belly which wrack my
body so that it is 
bent doubled in upon
itself. 

Of pillowy tissues
tearing from my uterine
walls, slipping from my
vagina like boneless baby
squid.

Congratulations. 

You're not a daddy. 

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