"I'm Supposed to Feel Loss Over the Body I Had, but My Body Never Felt Like Mine" by Bethany Jarmul

I’m Supposed to Feel Loss Over the Body I Had, but My Body Never Felt Like Mine

Then and now,
anxiety weaves webs
in my brain, laying
eggs in my
hippocampus,
feasting on my
cerebellum.

My intestines
weather the cramping
of incessant rain,
choker-necked
to the nearest toilet.

Don’t eat gluten, eggs, dairy.
Don’t eat fear, failure, feelings.
Don’t eat.

To my husband I gave
my heart attached
with fishing wire
to my vulva,
and the indistinguishable
pieces of me
like the cow-parts
in a hotdog.

My milk-filled
breasts belong
to my baby.
My nipples
are her favorite
chew toy.

My toddler climbs
me, like an apple tree—
plucks my hair,
my ears, my eyes.

My ovaries,
a garden of polyps,
uterus empty
or full of blood
that refuses
to exit as it should.

Stretch-mark-infested
stomach,
fungus-feasted
toenails beneath
peeling purple paint.

I’ll sell what’s left
for a nickel,
toss the shiny coin
in a wishing well,
wish for another
form, a bodiless
consciousness.

The water
cold against
the metal,
resting until
rain turns nickel
to rust.

Photo Credit: Staff