I still cry blood

from the catacomb;

the grave of my womb.

The infertile

branches of life gnarled.

A cruel joke;

the most potent poke

not enough to stir

the cries and laughter of my DNA.

Silent.

The hormones screaming

from the continual

twisting of the knife,

lest I forget choices made

the huge price paid

at too young an age.

Still invisible.

Occupying

the vast, unseen future

in which I now stand,

the unstoppable band

that keeps marching forward.

Streets lined with well wishers

who will never look me in the eye

scared to occupy

an orgasm that lacks promise.

The reality of hit-and-miss.

Turned away at the door

by a pregnant pause.

Unable to stomach

the pride,

the applause

of a Mother-to-be’s belt.

Not available in my size,

the un-won prize

of wearing my own shape.

Moulded and adjusted

over the years,

to stem the tears

of what is… what is?

Yet the river still flows

unabated by biology

a student of embryology

unaware that it is

nothing,

more,

than a cruel joke…