Infertility by Marley Manalo

i scooped out my womb. it was cracked bloody broken. i held it in my arms to nurse it back to health, feeding it supplements and superfoods so maybe it would heal. it’s not heavy, one or two ounces maybe, the size of cells when it’s new, and life begins to form. i breathed air into it, hoping since it comes from me, the uterine lining would act like it’s supposed to and recognize that it’s me, it’s hurting me, not physically, not a cramp or shedding, but when your heart falls to your stomach (or past that) maybe down to your uterus, and it whispers that it’ll never be filled never grow life, never give my love. so now i hold it in my palm, bringing it up to my face, staring as if it could see the pain in my eyes, from it’s betrayal. from my body’s betrayal.