On the outside
Before I was borm they thought I was dying.
Take this, they said. Panicking, my mother did
And forgot. After all it worked;
A perfect baby, on the outside.
Before I breathed, awash with hormones,
My insides were shaped by this bitter pill.
Now I am grown nothing quickens in me:
Ovaries coil in regret.
All I know is this hollow ache inside, and I bleed.
(c) Jay Whittaker 2005