By: Eliza Mimski

She was born.
The uterus opened.
She cried.
She cried.
She grew.
She took steps.
She threw tantrums.
She stomped her feet.
She entered school.
She was bullied.
She was made fun of.
She cried.
She cried.
She was adolescence.
Her knees knocked.
Her teeth came in crooked.
Her tiny breasts formed.
They weren’t big enough.
She was made fun of.
She cried.
She cried.
She dated.
Her heart was broken.
It split in half.
It split in pieces.
She cried.
She was adulthood.
She got married.
It was wrong.
She got divorced.
Time moved.
Time stretched.
Years collected.
Years passed.
Now, her hair opens its mouth and sighs.
Her skin is a waterfall of wrinkles.
Her breasts are gone.
Then, her uterus falls.
She’s become her couch.
She’s become her bed.
Finally, she can relax.

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Eliza Mimski lives in San Francisco where she writes poetry and personal essays.