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My Ovaries Hurt

My ovaries hurt, or maybe, just maybe,
its my arm where my daughter just bit me,
my flesh raw has been carved for dinner,
heaving, a chest that folds in and out like an accordian,
not knowing stability,
never knowing stability
sometimes words stab me so hard,
I have to stab myself just to go in
to suck out the poison meant to disturb
the equilibrium of a heart,
damn it
my heart is furious again,
breathing wildly because it broke again,
because my daughter turned my power against me,
when she turned the belt on me,
and told me,

“f _ _ _ you", and “f_ _ _ _ this”,_

her flashing brown eyes are not eight, but twenty-eight,
she’s not a child, but a woman challenging me for the right
to take charge of her own life already,
stuck with all the teeth marks
that look like trails on my already lived arms,
looking like a messy dirt road no one bothers to travel on,
“you know the kind full of scars, it ain’t worth the trip men think”

men always look at other faces whose eyelids are less puffy
from attempting to challenge God again,
when I throw myself hard on the floor
like a child screaming like a siren,
sounding like a war,
I know God is still in surgery,
pulling my heart out vein by bloody vein,
Emma is asleep now, her teeth hidden
behind calm voluptuous lips,
pretending like they didn’t take hold of my arm
like a dog taking hold of a tough piece of meat
only an hour ago,
she’ll pretend or forget what happened
look up with doe- like eyes in the morning
and a face so painfully chiseled
even God’s angels stop mid-air
to take notice
staring inquisitively,
staring intensively,
staring almost jealously,
and religiously,
yet dutifully at the Lord’s handiwork
and how it scares me,
how striking she already is in her sleep,
I’m not prepared for the suffering such
daughters cause their mothers
so I’ve plugged a radio deep into my head to sleep

and I lull myself to sleep at 2 in the morning
again
with a 2 liter diet pepsi by my bed
sucking on the entrance of an extreme
addiction,
my organs are drunk,
my kidneys drowning in urine
and I am drowning in this plastic bottle
I refuse to put down
I’ll suck on it at work,
to numb myself
I’ll use it as a shield
and a crutch to hold myself up

“I am too angry”
at God"
I am too angry
at myself too."

Years ago I threw a novel away
500 withered pages
Vladimir Milosovic/Reinhardt Mueller
was the schizoid
I miss him like lover whose been inside me
3 or 400 times,
I was that attached to him
to the uncertainty of him
of a character who shot Resistance members
like I slap mosquitos dead on this wall with peeling
paint,
they intended to harm me,
they had the intention of disrupting
my skin, and they had to be dealt with
for the terror they would soon promote
and like Vladimir we “deal” with “undesirables”
like I dealt with that mosquito
without remorse
without guilt

The Prose of his life
he tied woman after woman
to a wooden chair
without conscience,
to joyously expose the open cracks
between their chests
willingly he cracked them open
like lifeless walnuts
to humiliate them not with death
but with dying,
and he disposed of them
like you disposed of me
and I disposed of you
and you did it
like I did it
because we could
because power can
because power does
with tentacles of steel
we took hands to weaken
each other
that fist closed over many,
beautiful faces
and broke gorgeous blood vessels
all in a day’s work
romance was only a body
you pushed yourself into
an idea to be eliminated
and I tired of standing by your side
enduring your violent hiccups
after you vomitted your vodka
on my lap,
you broke your hands a few times
punching dozens of women
the way daddy used to punch my mother
he punched her
when I would watch
I was 3 when my eyes grasped
the two of them
years followed grasping them in the same
battle positions
in that same useless campaign
the weaker army has the most casualties
every time
it was a way of life

So Vladimir beat her
like dad beat mom
with ideology
with commitment
as horribly as a child with miniature fists
can throw her 40 lbs
as determined as a woman’s
petite hands try to defer
stronger arms
utterances myself deaf for them to stop
but they didn’t
maybe they couldn’t
and I “peed” in my childhood panties
with the women of the French Resistance
lost urine as well as blood
as well as lives
Vladimir would catch them
like tiny bugs inside his hands
to pull off their transparent wings
stripping them more than nude
to a chair
to deal with them
as men deal with their women
as animals deal with their frustrations
agony was a savage tied to the old wooden chair
with those women whose legs you broke apart
to take the only dignity that was left

Silence a victim whose mouth was one of the Lord’s seals
not to be opened until the end of the world
and everyone taped with silence
won’t be able to utter until then
and my inconsolable eyes empty with a grief
unable to pity
and there are days like that
so bandaged with our melancholy
and so shriveled with a loneliness
that has never felt the sun
and standing next to you was like that
giving myself to you even though I was
already half way down a pit you would
not lift me out of
I stood next to you despite
I gave myself to the enigma of that deeper world
against my better judgment
so dehydrated by an aloneness that I shared
my body with yours
we shared that last dying cigarette
while your fluids were still swirling inside me
I chloroformed my sensibilities before the
next time
and before the next cigarette

Love was the extreme terror in the room
dangling as knives from a broken chandaleer,
those windows inside someone
whose last glance is really a desperate plea
and God I am a stump when I look through lifeless
souls in bodies barely a breath
my limbs were straw for eyes without recourse
and my skin frozen for eyes without dignity
I wanted to be a safe house for eyes without
defenders
but mostly I needed Jesus in that room
for last rites
for eyes about to be murdered
and are eyes less human
or perhaps more human
than you or I?
and eyes were inantimate and soulless
like boiled eggs
they were pictures snapped
black and white
two circles without a society
to back them up
incapable of sleep
driven angry by insomnia
were my eyes
and my mother’s eyes
and the millions of eyes
filled with uncertainty
and the many eyes unaware
of attack
and they were brown and blue
and hazel and green
whose backgrounds you deliberately
changed with every sadistic blow
and it isn’t that you killed them eventually
it’s how you did it with your claws outstretched
like an eagle about to grab a mouse to eat it
it’s the way Vladimir had destroyed life,
and the way my daddy had destroyed my mother’s
hopes of ever growing old with him
I have since discovered that murder was really created
to take the dignity from another

And The scars of survivors go on and on
as pieces of wreckage as pieces of meat in a jungle
and they are forever floating
forever breathing in the open seas
in the open world
full of seaweed
full of bad taste and bad odor
and slivers and rocks inside their pores,
and inside their nostrils, and between their
toes, its that you can hide the things that
bleed well,
and the sense of not having a purpose
or direction,
that’s when I realize
what I am
just a bit of driftwood
and my life insignificant pages
drowning a little bit everyday
and my characters drowning with me
and all the characters I ever invented
bodies below its navel
decomposing in sea water
the salt chastising me
dehydrating me
as a lesson of my station
and the erroneous pleasure
I had in steering myself
wherever I pleased
an illusion that intoxicated me
and delighted me,
and the characters I used to get drunk
with to forget where I was
where I wanted to be
and where I had been
and who I really was
and what kind of people
really know
or would want to?

When does humanity become apparent?
and the necessity to destroy
a novel that defined the structures of my bones
and the guts I had to just chuck it
like an old piece of proverbial fruit
it isn’t enough that I did it
it’s still a bone in my throat
I can’t swallow or won’t swallow
it’s hemorrhaging and taking air away
from me
I am suffocating
I can’t breathe
without killing my dreams
without beating my ego senseless
it hurts like the hell I wished to
avoid
and it still a mystery
I haven’t solved
why God asks what He asks
when He knew the cost
when I knew what it cost Him
it wasn’t cheap for Emmanuel
I still can’t stop tearing the flesh
of my breasts open
flaming wounds trying to recover the words
I am an enraged sinner cursing inwardly
not at God but at me
and I should tremble to rip out my eyes
because God says,

“Better to enter life maimed”,
my tongue must be next
because I curse everthing with it
and bits of my skin debilitated by veins
always demanding the food of lovers
to fill them
and walking with two skins
will end up with the death of one
one always trying to assasinate the other

“The flesh lusting against the spirit and the spirit
lusting against the flesh, and the two consistently opposing
each other.”

My old habit has broken into me again
like a theif
so I am trying to push away everything sharp,
I am really fasting things that cut
but there is a sliver of arrow inside
I know it is because he is gone
like Jesus is gone,
and I miss Him,
like I miss him
as I miss the expression of my own
flesh

And not recovering the things that allows one
to trust so freely
and I wish I could miss never having my
parents love each other,
and being a wife to some man
instead of a mortal enemy
to every man I ever let in,
to every man I ever let take refuge
I miss my willingness to love them
instead of hate them
and I will not miss them
I reject being used
instead of toughening my heart
God let my cheeks run red
with humiliation
I don’t understand how
humility will help me
with fighting men
too many vessels inside my
eyes are broken
I only see shadows
and the world is a blur
I only imagined

But Lord what choices did you give me?
what choice did Vladimir give me?
or my father?
when God took me out of Adam’s side as well
and made me a woman
when God left me a woman alone
with only a rib
but never gave me the rest
of the body to go with it
and when I found one decomposing
to love
you took him away
it wasn’t my fault he hated you
and like a Father particular who His daughter loved
you made me banish him
my lover
the man I tried frantically to cleave to
without adhesion
even though he used me without
commitment,
even though he used every woman
in that book
and all of those women
were really me,
and I let him hurt them
to hurt me
to let them suffer
the way I had suffered
when they didn’t want me
when he didn’t really want them
and no one ever wanted me
and I threw you away
because the convictions
in my heart were like a torch
burning me in a premature hell
and I couldn’t fight the anguish
of what hell must be like
and you were not worth the Words of God
stabbing at me
and pricking me
and sticking me
and cutting me open
and wounding the sins inside me
and the wounds were deep
and the Word was like salt
and God poured
and poured
and poured
and sin stings
and I am not dead
as to not be deaf
and even scabby knees
and scabby elbows
and even the pictures
I cut into my thighs
could hear and accept
the conviction and the indictment
of your extreme perversion
and I loved you!
that’s what made it hard
and impossible to leave you
sleeping in the middle of the night
I had to leave you
when the very things you were broke
my virtues
I could hear the world screaming
and the survivors of the Holocaust moaning
and the prayers they echoed through time
and I could see them being dragged
I witnessed the limping of humanity
into those ovens and gas chambers
those mouths with gaping wounds
a monstrousity of shock
the betrayed face of a childhood black
and burned charcoal
inside those crematoriums
I know that’s why I really threw
you away
I disowned you
like the disease you had
been

I threw you away because
you were cruel,
the more I wrote I discovered
my own perversion inside you
the more I wrote about you
the more I was really writing
about myself
I was really hating me
when I was hating you
when you were hating mom
when she was hating you
when you were hating each other
and there was a passion for good
inside my dad
when he held his fist inward
and Vladimir never took pipes
to knock out crowns
and fillings
there was pride as a spector
keeping them from going too long
without the violence
as alcohol or cigarettes
there was the hatred of mom
shutting down her body
and pain packing us up
to the next available
shelter
the secrets each of us
keeps
the fear hidden for
years
until if finally has
the guts to come
out
by pulling my skin apart
letting itself out
checking if the coast is finally
clear
and the humiliation
of loving someone that knock the
words into you
leaving the letters
bright red on you
and I remember the apologies
of daddy and Vladimir
putting their heads
deep into our laps
sniveling for forgiveness
until the next scream
from my mother’s throat
and there was Milinda’s throat
the wife who loved Vladimir
the woman I let myself become
to have you accept me
as a woman
as the woman I was taught
to be
and I let you lift me up
by the neck
to punch and to
kiss
and I threw her away
too
to save her from the life
of my mother
from the countenance
of no self-esteem
and the stigma of not
knowing how to earn
money
and I saved Jahn too
the fiancee Vladimir pretended
to want
but didn’t
the woman he put
his SS uniform on
you had said to spare
her
I think not
authority is a language
speaking clearly
with confidence
it was to lift your
pathetic soul
to a place you couldn’t
get to by yourelf
depreciation takes
religion
the need another
has to be close to
God

Because some can’t

And we pack ourselves
up like rags so many times
leaving abuse
only to find it again
to leave it again,
only to make a bed with it again
and the suffering being unloved
brings
like the gavel of a judge coming
down hard over a face
and we carried
the poisoned seeds of the next
generation
and we hungered for an artificial love
and got abuse
and years presume on
lifting the curtain on all of the
places inside me that remind me
of hell
the blood clots that were meant
as a revelation
blocking me from ever achieving
anything serious with
life
isn’t it easier to push
paper like it is easier
for another to push drugs?
than to really push ourselves
to the next level of humanity
sometimes we force the wrong way
with the wrong people
and the misery of love
can be flushed down like
a lot of dirty toilet paper
at first I was relieved
that you were out of my
senses
you pushed too deeply
until I started to see out
of your heart
and my lungs were filled
with the cigarettes
you loved to smoke
I smoked though
I didn’t really want to
but you were addicted
and tried to addict me
to your world
and you don’t know what
that’s like
until someone wants to
become you
or demands that you
become him

God saved me
just in time
I was praying and praying
fervently
to be a prophet
like Ezekiel to be on the wall
of humanity
to blow the trumpet
to warn them that
the Lord was coming
and I wanted to blow
my horn when New York
came crashing down
to preach repentance

But vice is too far down
inside me
when I clutched that novel
to my heart
I was a foolish school girl
clutching it like it was my
virginity,
and the Lord had to pry it
away
when He did He took
a deeper sense of myself
with it
I walk around in a stupor
in oblivion
with a death
with blood-stained hands
with a chastisement
that cleaves to me so
dreadfully
and the Word of God
still bleeds
and shame slapped me
still I have no closure
only a fresh cut
under my brassiere
a deep sliver of necessity
and I crave them
I miss them all
so much without
wanting to remember
them

grief a heavy stone
my own mortality
middle age reeks
when their tombs start clinging
to me
as real as my own flesh
their zombie memories
haunt
since I tossed the past
a stinking piece of fish
and we are not stinking
and bald,
and skinny
and starving
and we are not
on the West Bank
being shelled senseless
don’t we have the right to
exist too!

I will never strap bombs
around my navel
and breasts
I wanted to feed another
baby someday
I am not expendable
like you are not
expendable
and I am collective
memory
like you are collective
memory
and we are history
and future
and yet I am
individual memory
I become swallowed
in the pages of destiny

and like Alice, I am
falling,
falling,
backwards into a dark hole
of uncertainty,
into that bottomless pit
of fate,
into a dumpster
of rejection
and I am unable to climb out alive
I am responsible for mass graves
if I let my mind remember
like photographs that are torn
and useless reflection
and destroyed mirrors

I crush myself like
crushing ice to fill my glass
and we crush each other
in order to climb a little
higher in this world
and we step on
and break each other’s
calloused hands climbing
up this human ladder
my heart will not set them free
the past only a colossal prison
if I let the recesses of my mind
wander back there
my conscience puts me on trial
secretly and openly
for murdering them
since I deprived
the characters of
myself
when I threw the pages
of who they were written
on away
when the computer ink which
was life’s blood fell
among old banana peels
and old potato peels
and used tampons
and menstrual pads
when I abandoned him like tossing
a helpless infant,
he couldn’t have climbed out
an obscene act
to kill the helpless
I am stuck hard with the
screws of guilt, and
the guilty must never
go free
and the guilty
need suffering
more than anyone

I suffer the worst torment
in remembering
in forgetting
in needing to
forget
in vowing
not to remember
yet forgetting
is really remembering
and I took another life
when I threw those
pages away
and the chapters
made them real
alive
once alive
into the trash
I will pay someday
this tiny room
I sit inside is really
the prison of my
poverty
my punishment
by all admission
a psyche we have
locked ourselves
into
believing
its where
we really belong
with esteems
constantly beating us up
denying we deserve
anything

But a tiny stick inbetween
caffeine stained teeth
a solitary bottle between
the gaps of our mouths
and miniature teeth marks
like a vampire’s by our own
frustrated and abandoned
children
the sadness imprinted
deeply and clearly
on the flesh of the open sores
of society

My daughter has tried to spell
out her depression
like tattoos on my body
cryptic writing explaining
that she misses a father
she has never seen
and how she wishes
he hadn’t left her
I am the one who must pay for his
fascist soul
and I will not give an inch
to wife beaters and dead beat
dads

That’s why I threw my character
Vladimir away,
I miss the smoke of the cigarettes
I used to ingest more than I do
men,
maybe
I suck on diet sodas all day
to forget that my ovaries are always
hurting.

©mattybduran2010

My Ovaries Hurt

Matty B. Duran

Joined July 2009

  • Artist
    Notes
  • Artwork Comments 2

Artist's Description

Years ago I threw away a novel due to its violent content. I struggled with having to do that. I had been angry with God, not sure why He had asked me to do it. This poem came out of my open hostility and bitterness about that.

Artwork Comments

  • Light-Rain
  • Matty B. Duran
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