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Abstract

to my misplayed chances, willful disobediences, and personal failingsJust be happy.That embryo, now a fetusDo you think I WANT to be fucking sad?Smile every once in a while, why don’t you?I feel it kicking, squirming, talons raking my entrails,All I want is to be happy, and good, and make you proud.pushing its infected, cuspate beak upward through my resolve and into my self-perception.And from such a good family…Say it again, please. I have not second-guessed myself enough for the past 30 years. I desperately need another reminder of where I missed the mark. This thing growing inside me needs more nourishment.You must love yourself before you can love others.You rob me that, which may be my only saving grace.Despising mysel

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f, hollowed and gored, exhausted and wasted, I seek to fill that cavity with an externally-directed goodwill,I just want to be happy for you and make your proud.which you would so casually take from me.My 30 year gestation is ended. It breeches, a self-conduced cesarean and with trembling hands I lay it on the flesh of my breast.We love you.If I cannot love myself, or, by proxy others,at least I can love the beast.This poem was written in response to <a href="undefined">John Haslam</a>’s prompt <a href="https://readmedium.com/youre-under-my-skin-496e2b24bed4">You’re Under My Skin</a>, wherein he challenges us to think about the adage “we should love ourselves first before loving another”. It deals with my frustrating inability to accept the care others have for me.Thanks to John for this insightful prompt. It was a hard write.</article></body>

Pregnant

A poetry prompt response

Humble beginnings, upstanding, loving parents bequeathing work-ethic, humility, compassion, and self-confidence

Where did my car uncouple from the rest of the train? For a tumor, originally shaken off as non-malignant, is growing and metastasizing in my brain, a cognitive cordyceps constantly convincing more and more cells of my cells of their (un)worth the dull clump of subsequent, undiagnosed depression hardening eventually shattering into razor sharp shards of self-inflicted fungal fury with a fine, well-honed edge of an embryonic rage; A testament to my misplayed chances, willful disobediences, and personal failings

Just be happy.

That embryo, now a fetus

Do you think I WANT to be fucking sad?

Smile every once in a while, why don’t you?

I feel it kicking, squirming, talons raking my entrails,

All I want is to be happy, and good, and make you proud.

pushing its infected, cuspate beak upward through my resolve and into my self-perception.

And from such a good family…

Say it again, please. I have not second-guessed myself enough for the past 30 years. I desperately need another reminder of where I missed the mark. This thing growing inside me needs more nourishment.

You must love yourself before you can love others.

You rob me that, which may be my only saving grace.

Despising myself, hollowed and gored, exhausted and wasted, I seek to fill that cavity with an externally-directed goodwill,

I just want to be happy for you and make your proud.

which you would so casually take from me.

My 30 year gestation is ended. It breeches, a self-conduced cesarean and with trembling hands I lay it on the flesh of my breast.

We love you.

If I cannot love myself, or, by proxy others,

at least I can love the beast.

This poem was written in response to John Haslam’s prompt You’re Under My Skin, wherein he challenges us to think about the adage “we should love ourselves first before loving another”. It deals with my frustrating inability to accept the care others have for me.

Thanks to John for this insightful prompt. It was a hard write.