It’s not an apron string being cut
I swear it’s actually a flesh wound
Inflicted with violence and prejudice
Bleeding and raw
It’s a scab that gets picked
Over and over
Until the once baby smooth skin is a scar
Protective and interesting
But harder
and hard won
A constant reminder of separation
There is no quick and easy snip
Of soft cotton
That was never really part of me anyway
This is tearing out a piece of me
Loudly at it’s best
Silent screaming at its worst
Necessary surgery
No, surgery is too clean and sanitary
Necessary injury
I wonder if in this separating
is Like giving birth
The tighter I clench the more it hurts
And the peace is found in…
leaning into…
Relaxing
During the exquisite waves of pain
Releasing
Focusing on the joy at the end
Trusting my mothering strength to do
What it was designed for
As I birth men in the place of babies
In great pain
Which always seems to be the price of love
