What I Can’t See
I open my legs so the doctor can see what I can’t see— are my eggs still good? They are scheduled to expire on my forty-fourth birthday, according to statistics. I dislike statistics. They tell me about other people’s lives, not my own. Since my son died, I’ve been manufacturing hope like synthetic sugar, ignoring the bitter aftertaste. I use the following ingredients for my saccharine: sex for procreation, lottery tickets (playing his birthday and death day) and writing poems. I know the saying Life isn’t fair, but come on, I’m walking through life sideways. I can’t get the...
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