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Photo by Red Feather West Folk

Arms reach, toes curl, spine pops just fine it seems.

And yet this womb of mine aches, swollen and aggravated.

By what I can’t understand.

Veins and arteries surge thick. Enflamed.

Perhaps the ancestral women are upset I haven’t used my machinery.

Perhaps they’ve met to craft a grand plan to take it all back, recover my pearls for another, younger…

At 34 it isn’t clear whether I’ll be needing this feminine equipment after all.

Too tough, too emotional, too fiery.

Haven’t met a male match since I’ve fully embodied it all.

My personality’s quirks. My bodies curves. The depth of my spirit.

Even this damn dull ache and burn in my pelvis.

All mine to be so wonderfully and heartachingly alone with.

All mine to own and bear witness to as I shapeshift and share in this collective life story.

And so I surrender into that brutal sting of the salt, offering myself exposed alongside so many of you, to swim in the healing narrative of our truths.

High tide and low.

Knowing every now and again, we’ll find ourselves washed ashore.

And yet even on the sun-soaked beaches, when we hold our ears just right, we still hear that soft roar of support in the distance.

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