Yes, this fear comes from being bombed in the womb. 

Civil War trauma in the womb.

Grenade womb.

Volcano womb.

I blame the womb for everything. 

Blaming anything else makes no sense. 

That’s the egg. 

The beginning. 

The rest is a consequence. 

This moment is merely pounded behavior, mixed with GMO’s. 

I speak and write funny cause I taught myself your English. 

You Americans are thieves, you’re complicated. 

You’re lucky I can even express myself correctly. 

I’m lucky that my accent is next to dead. 

That I watched Valley Girl enough times to kill it. 

Kill it. 

Murder it. 

Bury it.

I thank 80’s music and PBS for my education. 

I thank MTV and VH1’s Pop-Up Videos.

Life-changing events and birthdays are to blame for my poetry. 

Celebration of the womb. 

Keep the theme, keep the womb in the forefront of the mind, because you’ll notice, that all you do, all you think, all you fear, all you love goes back to the beginning. 

Nostalgia lives, because the womb calls it. 


I need sleep.


I need to crawl back to the womb.

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