When You Cut Me
I know. I understand—it’s your job
but it’s not my job
it’s my life, my baby, my body!
you went home that night to a warm home, a soft bed
and I was left on my back
in a cold room
with a hole in my soul abdomen
I’m not complaining about the job you did—
with your “cut rate” I believe you must be an expert now—
I’m complaining that you did the job
Did you know that when you cut me, I bled?
you cut a hole in my body and put your
you didn’t ask may I move your bladder
may I touch your ovaries
may I take your baby
you took my baby!
You were the first woman to touch her
she was my first child and your bloody latex hands
were the first thing she felt
instead of me pushing, you pulled
When you cut me
I didn’t do anything!
I was just strapped to a table
a tube in my nose
then you just walked into the room
hidden behind your puke green screen
chatting with your colleagues
touching my body
cutting my skin
I was right there!
but you didn’t
think about me
did you ask if I was scared?
was I okay?
did I have any questions?
did I want to know what was happening?
It’s your job.
When you cut me.