Pain: Every womyn's last name.

I can feel my insides twist and shout. These stabbing pains come to remind me again that March is the month, designated by whoever designates special dates for special occasions, to remember women. Perhaps we've been forgotten for the rest of them remaining months. Inside me rest two generators of life... and like every thing that accompanies life, two generators of pain. This month my right ovary decided to bleed, hemorrhagic cyst, I can feel the little balls of blood coagulating in my belly.

First I thought my fertility had won the battle against contraceptions. The only good sign of blood dripping from the pubis is that I won't have to become a pseudo-murderer, baby-killer, evil-doer,satan-worshipper. But this time it wasn't there... it didn't come with it's agonizing ways. Pee on a cup or a stick, blue lines, double blue lines, negatives, positives... manufactured ways for doubting nature.

Pains, my insides are swelling with anger, with anxiety, stress, swollen female gonads. Blood, that will not shave away from the uterine walls, it wants to paint them red, it wants to dance inside my insides. Blood, come out and play. I've always thought of having children as a point of no return, I will not meet that winding road. Yet somehow if I was told I couldn't bare life... perhaps I would shed tears. It's a paradox... a very crappy one.

This month the establishment celebrates womanhood in all of it's cliché representations... I curse it. I want to tear this egg factories away from myself. I am not a chicken. I refuse to produce omelette's.

I will not lay eggs.