something about pregnancy makes me quiet.
like, write in all lowercase letters, speak in all whispers, disappear for months kind of quiet.
at the same time, it makes me fierce.
nine months since I’ve had whiskey on my lips, the burn of smoke twirling from my lungs into cold air.
three months since I’ve hit publish.
one year since the bruises covering my face faded and I flew thirty thousand feet above salt water.
one month I’ve been staring at the contract on my desk telling me I have stories to tell.
forty eight weeks of sound sleep next to the heart that beats like mine.
and the tiny heart we created, that beats inside.
we nervously watched it flicker on so many black and white screens, breath held with hope for proper mechanics.
just a few days left. hours maybe.
i wish i could bottle up this wisdom of silence, label this patience, and keep it on a shelf for a rainy day.
i can’t, but I won’t need it anyway.
new life is healing. it destroys what was, and brings what will be.
it transforms what we find beautiful.
the quiet is healing. it’s not a nervous quiet. it’s not a socially anxious hibernation.
it’s a calm stillness that absorbs, takes in the energy of the world.
abstaining from vices, listening to the hands tick on the clock.
it teaches me to say “I don’t owe you an explanation.”
i am in control of what I share with others, and why I choose to do so.
it strongly demands, in a consuming way, that i be fully alive and present in this body.
biological feminism. not lost in my mind, not maintaining an image, not proving any points.
just here, with raw purpose and nothing to hide.
full breasts soon to be dripping with milk,
veins pulsing with my lover’s DNA.
nerves firing off chemical reactions we don’t quite understand,
skin stretched in a way that will leave plenty of proof.
a soft reminder, in every moment, that this is what’s important.