“He calls me beautiful like it’s my name.”

I am the pinnacle of beauty… thy fair, pregnant one. A paradigm of the childbearing form. A tour de force of propagation. Beseech thee, oh fair rounded bellied one. I am beauty. Veins ache and bulge from my whiskery lower limbs. Slumber is afflicted with aches. Urination is repeated in the midnight hours. Un-lady like vapours bellow frequently. Dog is frightened. The elixir of youth, pear and prune, do not relieve intestine confinements. I am beauty. Thy rash, in which is only bestowed on 1% of gestating women, has been blessed unto thee, stomach and bosom. I am anointed with an emulsion of steroid to appease the yearning to rip thee skin apart with nails. Bosoms are sacrificed in weakness in attempt to salvage stomach from beauty scars. I am beauty. I breathe laboriously. Thy movement is restricted. Lower limbs continue to flourish with new growth. Male companion refuses to assist the harvest of thy leg hair. Flexibility is futile. Witch Doctor man uses needles to relieve angst. Potions of raspberry leaf and fish oil continue to be consumed in preparation for fast birth and smart offspring. I glow with an aura of sweat. I flush with heat. I eat like swine. Child is now engaged. Thy bag is urged to be packed. Fear grips the back of my neck and holds me hostage. I am the chipped vase, the broken mirror, the cracked porcelain. I am the bearer of hope, the keeper of sorrow. Dust and bones, heart and soul. I am the possessor of life. I am beauty.

If this is beauty, then beauty is a cruel, fickle vixen.

“Note to self: I am enough.”

37 Weeks