Pregnant with death

It can’t be referred to as my double life anymore.  It’s so much more than that. 

Hook, lifeline and sinker.

My way to exist in many worlds at once without leaving any one reality behind. 

I wish I could explain the waves that buoy me toward the horizon and then wash me back up on shore cruelly without notice.  It’s an amazing feeling to watch yourself float away to the point of no return.  Like you’re slipping, that final push into eternal light. 

But so far, I always return. 

If a woman could only escape for good.  Her body.  Stand on the outside and watch herself give birth.  This is what it’s like.  Anything worth living or dying for. 

The pain. 

The power you must harness to bear down only when it’s time.  The control you must release when nature commands the final push. 

You can’t even keep yourself company during hard labor.  Nor can anyone else.  As much as they love you or not.  Birth is incomprehensible except through distant analogies and poignant interruptions of sanity recognized by most as personality flaws. 

I can tell you this.  Now I understand that if you’ve never given birth, I’ll always remain a mystery to you, and you to me. 

For everyone who forgot when life passed through you and when you passed through life, I plead with you.  Don’t put so much value on being understood. Science could never explain giving birth to nothing.  Nothing but blood and tears and the realization you were pregnant with death all along.

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