Woman Speak

“No, only salt for my dinner” For I am a woman in pain. Punished for not sowing my oats this season, Not using the gift of which condemns my own since creation. The existence of childbearers must be painfully ironic. For months the first taste of salvation from Eden’s damnation Is left only to cease in the most horrid display of a heavenly miracle. A highly combustible most fragile treasure. This tiny wrinkled vile of ferocious possibility uncovers our biggest faults and our deepest desires. But for now I’ll taste of hormones’ cravings Whilst my insides shudder of a fiery fate. To be shorn clean as God willed or left to scream in agony until deemed worthy of defeat.