But I was truly
a guest in the womb,
a lady perched lightly atop
the cervix already saying “oh, pardon me,”
and there’s something elegant there, something refined about taking
the suffering of womanhood and wearing it close to the skin, like a clinging
turtleneck. Sometimes I may pick at the sleeves, sure. Don’t you? Maybe that’s
why turtlenecks are my favorite garment, like a gender that strangles you a little.

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