Voyeurs Anonymous, or a spoonful of spit.

hi-my-name-is-and-I-am-a-voyeur

It's that time of the year again and I'm back in the womb: strengthened safe wrapped up quietened

but remember how you were extracted?
not the easy|| flow
contraction/sweat/tears/screaming/end-of-tunnel-crying
no
instead
the flash of scalpel rip of stomach yank of umbilical cord tear of flesh then stitch stitch stitched up with cheap thread holding you together
I have traced out the scars on your stomach,
like you were reluctant to let us go. I want to imagine a struggle
a fight kicking screaming ether white lights left with screaming squirming ball in your arms your dilated pupils can't take in as your eyes roll back into your head
like your spit in a spoon

so with every return
I forgot the safety lock and
well, here I am
with no way to tell no way to yell locked up knocked up/
down and empty holes you can never fill.

there was something about a swiftly fading orgasm relegated to the soles of my feet
but I don't remember it now.