No longer do I have to explain it is not a pregnancy.
No longer am I sat on the loo for large chunks of time, unable to stop the dark thick fall out that continually drained me of life.
No longer do I shower and watch the clots descend from me, blobbing on the tiles beneath. Staining the shower cubicle in gross globules of jelly matter.
No longer do I feed my football sized fibroid. The parasitic being it was. Foetally presented, with its own vascular supply and its own factory time line of hormones. Negativity at its heart.
No longer am I sapped and falling asleep on my TV saturated four-year-old in the afternoon.
No longer do I count the days of my cycle to see what I could, might come to expect. Not that there was ever a repeated pattern; I was always lost in a perpetual complex state of womanhood.
No longer am I lost in a perpetual complex state of womanhood.
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