the body
they say god works in mysterious ways.
maybe that’s what the surgeon was—
a prophet with a scalpel,
preaching mercy through removal.
they tell me i’m healed,
but my body whispers otherwise.
it remembers blood and begging,
the hush of anesthesia,
the slow unmaking of a woman.
i used to pray for children.
now i light candles for the parts of me
they took in the name of salvation.
my womb, my faith, my softness—
all laid out on a stainless-steel altar.
the doctors called it surgery.
i call it exorcism.
they carved out the fever
but left the haunting behind.
sometimes i swear i hear a heartbeat
in my dreams—
something small, something mine,
trapped in the dark,
asking why i didn’t save it.
in another life,
i was meant to be a mother.
in this one,
i’m just the ghost of the idea.
