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So, I watched this recently:

And I thought it was amazing, and beautiful. I am lucky, in that I got to keep my nipples, but I do have a scar from hip to hip that I’m thinking of turning into something prettier. Not because I think it is ugly, but because I think it could be prettier. And like Molly Ortwein, I cannot wait to be naked after it is done.

Today I’m also inspired by David Lynch, whose description of creativity is so spot on and thought-worthy.

http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2014/05/09/david-lynch-interview-ideas-creativity/

“Desiring an idea is like bait on a hook”.  He says that often two fragments stream together, to become an idea. That’s what I’ve been experiencing lately. That, and a very strange wistfulness for my uterus. There is really nothing I hate more than writing about it, but I guess that sometimes in this year after, I have to write about it now and again. This will probably be about my boobs, too, I imagine.  Fair warning.

Here:

Small Fragments

If you catch an idea, that is a beautiful, beautiful day. The fragment of this day, today, is a stinging vine along the wound, that ropes around and carries the weight of the loss.

I will draw a vine in small morsels, a wild bramble that climbs along the scar, growing crimson and green along the scar, pointed pedals down, touching down, to the fruit below the womb.

Mourning the heavy cave, missing the swelling, the hook and the release, the brace of pieces that come hanging down from the pain, down from the full pelvis, down from the aching back and middle.

That packetship of hurt that ports monthly, how could it be missed? What secrets could it keep in its sails? The biggest, and most important, maybe.

Missing that cavemouth is a cold and wet evening. If I could rename my breasts I would call them “mornings”.  In the sunlight, I would show them off, if it were accepted.

The worst and most scary thought is this:  Where have the words gone? and did they live there, in the organs? if so, how do I get them back?

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I hate a poem that ends in questions. But, these ones are real. I really feel that. It sucks. Happy Friday, poemies.

 

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