“The landscape of your vagina has changed”
she says this to me from between my knees
referring to the LEEP procedure
and cryotherapy
performed a few years before.
Measures take against
the pre-stages of cervical cancer.
The beast that demanded a hysterectomy
but didn’t get it.
“Must have been aggressive”
she said moments before
my legs were up in stirrups
as she click clacked at her computer.
Forget the rapes that count as many as the fingers on my hand
less a thumb.
The last one,
aggressive enough to create
a year long vagina complex
I still haven’t recovered from.
The landscape of your vagina has changed,
never mind having given birth.
A vagina and cervical marathon completed
with whispered pleas,
“Take me to Mexico,
let’s forget this baby is coming”
Birth marks
are not just for the new born.
My body remembers all of these stories.
The dips and valleys
of a receded cervix,
scars and cuts,
makes my vagina a war torn country.
Life and death have lived here.
Men have spilled blood here
My vagina and I
fear we must disguise it
as something it’s not,
in order to make
peace
with ourselves.
ifieverstoploving 