Unnecessary cravings and the pulling at our pelvises

I don’t have dreams. I have nightmares. In these nightmares, I feel full and cannot walk properly. I am forced to waddle. I can never see my feet. My body must constantly readjust its center. I fall forward against walls, doors, innocent onlookers, old women. And these are the ones who turn and sigh their empathy. Their skin knows the ancient pain. It knows of the blood flood that feeds the girth to explode. They know when the hips expand and the burning friction of bone on bone, the tearing of private skin. And the sigh of relief to finally hear that unseen cry.

We are comrades in the bulbous semi-circle our bellies have seen. Loose skin and a permanent paunch. And in our private places such as the ladies room and the shopping mall, we lift our skirts to show our battle scars. The women with the C-section stitches always win. This is supposed to be something beautiful. “The gift of life.” But I have nightmares and there are pulled-apart fetuses shoved deep down to the bottoms of garbage cans.