Memories of bulimia during morning sickness
Old hunger winters in the dense blossom of my body. If to mother is to scar, these ulcers twinge translucent within my throat. I birthed them with my own hand. This fetus throbs stomached shadows: all the times I longed to empty my body, how I loved to spill myself. If to mother is to bind one thing to another, I am the mother of all the memories who shape shift alongside me, all the places in my body where skin forms something new.