Egg Ick
I dedicate this to all those who also have never felt baby fever.
Freya Carolyn
7/23/20251 min read
I used to wish I was infertile.
Is it symbolism that I can’t crack eggs without spilling the yolk?
Children bewilder me - ‘children’ itself sounds like a word so foreign,
I, alien, It, human.
The ‘Egg Ick’ they call it,
I call it a crippling inability to mother, to nurture, to love
those that do not already love you.
30,000 eggs
1 million eggs
1 billion eggs
A zillion babies in a fleshy, bloody, slit home
Clawing to get
Out.
Away from this monster they call mother
Wishing her own womb to poison her children
To save her from the agonising process
Of animating a life she is not woman enough to water.
Plants and eggs
A perfectly feminine scent.
I smell of the outlet mall behind my house.
Perhaps my wish will come true and I shall look around at the faces
Of pity
Or scorn (the mommy-freaks)
‘She can’t perform her natural function - might we reassemble her?’
A tear might shed at the loss of possibility
Or of relief that my body will always save me.
