by Doriana Diaz
the third time I was in the bathtub.
the water turned blood orange.
I felt it seeping out of me.
I laid in it for awhile.
when I was ready, I drained the water and watched it empty.
I called my mama.
she came the next day.
stayed for three months.
you left for awhile.
eventually you came back when you said you were “done healing”
the second time you drove me to the ER.
you waited right outside the door while the doctor opened me up with her tools.
she was white.
she instructed me to lay back and close my eyes.
“practice your deep breathing”
She opened me with pliers first.
then she took the wrench,
unclasped my openings and inspected the interior with a flashlight.
she told me everything looked right, felt right even.
she stuck her fingers down deep to ensure.
I blamed her. I told myself she took my baby away from me before it was ready.
You and I were never the same after the second time.
I was never the same after the second time.
I stopped fighting.
the first time I woke up to blood running down the inside of my thighs.
we laid together.
you reached your hand inside me and pulled out a deceased body.
the limbs were cold.
the toes were curled under.
You pulled the child out through my mouth.
I wished on every crescent moon not to ever be one of those mamas.
we stripped the bed, threw the sheets into the garbage can.
you stayed inside me until your name was my name.
until your blood was my blood,.
until we got all tangled up in one another,
and our bodies forgot what divided us in the first place.