You want to know if I’d do it again. All over again. No. Not if I had the choice. Not the injections. Not the pills. Not the endless. Ultrasounds. Not the anxiety. Or the “will it take?” Or the “is there a heartbeat?” Or the “how many viable embryos?” No. Not again. Not for another. And not for a “because it’s worth it”. No. There are not enough of those for me. To do it. Again. I like. To be alone. To hold my body. To sleep in my body. To listen to what. My body needs. And it cannot. Won’t. Doesn’t want to. Do any of it. Again. The womb. Was fruitful. Birthing. Was tender. I loved what my bones. And my blood. And my skin became while pregnant. But I wouldn’t do it. Again. I’ve lost. Too many. Things. To become a mother. Things. I would not have given up. Had I. Known. She is my breath. My body. Her body. I wouldn’t give that up. Now. But no. I wouldn’t. Won’t. Can’t. Don’t want to. Do it. Again.
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