Updated: Apr 14, 2022
By Jae Eason
On a day, during a month that I will forget, I ask my mom for a hysterectomy.
In her Long Island accent, which I believe she sometimes overplays, she
responds, “Are you crazy?” And maybe I am crazy, and maybe I am trying
to disconnect myself from the things that don’t feel like mine.
This cunt is not mine. Did you know, the last time I masturbated, I sobbed.
Hadn’t touched myself in months, but forced myself after multiple glasses
of wine. Wanted to remember what pleasure felt like in this body instead of
fear, but I trembled on my bed as tears drenched my skin and my dildo lay
limp beside me.
Let me find the knife and amputate these tubes. I never want to be engorged
with life. And maybe I am crazy, but I want my womb to be the thing that is
solely mine. When they one day cut this body open, I want them to only see
When thinking of all the babies I do not wish to have, I think of all the people
who wish to have babies, but cannot. Sometimes I see this urge for
sterilization as selfish. But I think about it more than I think about fucking.
And maybe I am crazy. But there is something foreign in here and it has
possessed a key for too long. How do I plead to the doctor to take out what
isn’t mine? I can no longer pretend that I am okay with this.
Jae Eason is a poet from Long Island, New York. They studied English Literature at Arizona State University. While there, they won a Swarthout Award in Poetry. They currently work as an Office Manager at Brooklyn Poets and an English Teacher in South Korea. If they are not up to all the normal things people usually do, they’re most likely having an existential crisis.
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