Not yet conscious, not yet human, but headed in that direction.
They worked you up in a glorious reeking haze, dulled senses unfeeling, and there you go. You were not planned, and neither was the act.
Can’t kick yet and can’t tell her you’ve come because at this point, she could just be late.
In eleven years, if you make it, you’ll earn the same reproductive rights to your own body that now drive a wedge between your mother’s interests and your own.
But for now, your mother says
FUCK YOU CHILD
You’re a nuisance and I hate you.
And god weeps in the atoms of the scalpels that slice you.