The anniversary of my birth, and mothers day occasionally intersect.
This is not one of those years. I am rotting, decaying- allowing my body to drift further and further from the ideal in a disorderly room I am renting out. I am alone.
Mothers day is difficult. For a while I felt I had a sort of spirtual connection to the holiday, if only because of the day of my birth. Now it is a unique sensation, a dull constant pain that increases in intensity, reaching it's apex this year, on the 12th of May, 2024.
...
I am infertile and cannot bear children. I walk this desolate, hateful earth a barren woman.
I scold myself, ''What does it matter? You are far too young to be concerning yourself with thoughts of having child.''
The rebuttual, ''You talk! If we are to continue this line of reasoning we are rapidly approaching a future time of pure suffering. My body's failings. How painful to have been born with such.''
Mothers day kinda fuckin sucks.