He said that there’s stories of the past
That teach that when women bleed,
They are the echoes of our mothers and grandmothers and great grandmothers
Maybe my uterus is a tomb for their sins
Or maybe each shrieking pain, that I have is the reliving of pain they experienced
Colonised pain, the pain of heartbreak, the pain of refugees
Willows of weeping trees must pass through my body
Must find themselves in shrines to worship
My body a temple, they must find home in it
But yet they burn up the place, with sage and salt
As an honouring to clear out the devils
My whole body in ruins,
Down waist side, I have a paralysed womb
Devils not only live her
They succubus
A womb that wishes to run free of all the torment that these women fought
A forest of thick blood grows, shredded now,
Only to imitate families
Shedding, broken at roots,
Broken from the womb to the tomb