The wound is deep — never really healed, just covered over — in I wish I could have done better. Knew more. In another text message warning me how I am destroying my brain.
From this womb came a girl — not wounded yet. That would come later when memories began. From this wound comes a bloodless tragedy. Only words. No bruises. No breaks. Wondering what memory hides in safety. A repetitious wounding.
A making small. Stitched over twice. This womb is a vacant space. It longs to be more than it is. A womb connects her to blood, a mistaken kind of love. Her words become a confusing array of letters. This love breaks, tears, and bleeds.
This womb will never be a home again. Did the words cross the barrier of flesh? Or was this a prologue to a repetitious narrative that always ends the same?
I’m tired of telling my story. Tired of the questions, tired of these words, this process. I’ve felt so lost lately in this space defined by its absence.
How do I describe hope when it feels muffled — when I’m so tired of being tired. Tired of trying so hard to pretend. I’m tired of being okay — a blah, neutral word that says nothing really, when I feel less, do less. I’m tired of these days spent getting through.
Tired of feeling little. Tired of wondering what went wrong. Tired of navigating a seemingly endless space. Tired of trying to hope. Tired of explaining — tired of introducing — tired of losing — tired of grieving — tired of pushing through.
The fog is thick and can no longer be contained. It’s unavoidable, unignorable. I’m tired of not feeling any different. Tired of words in the night. In the morning. Tired of running. Tired of circular dialogues — tired of living in lack. Tired of promises.
Tired of hope. Longing for hope. Hope is tiring. Words for a kind of nothingless persistence feel so tired. When these wounds still ache until they are numb and endless from a womb long absent.