Q

I feel my self and body in a liminal space of womanhood. Right now the epitome of a woman symbolically, in all its overt display of fertility, but not materially.

Being pregnant is the antithesis of everything they taught us about being female.

The belly that grows daily, once an unfashionable horror, now a necessity. The learnt disgust that kicks in at “growing big” comes with it a flood of relief that life you are carrying continues to live.

The breasts, now feigning acquiescence to the years of wishing that they get bigger, are function not form. They are not the vibrant bloom of young womanhood I once prayed for, but a ripening: dark and fermenting, portending tasks and chores to come.

I feel cow heavy and waddle duck footed. The body is now merely a vessel, eaten inside out, and no longer mine.

Past relevant reads:

The body as a ___.

The body as a machine.