By M. Cynthia Cheung

If you had come
to fruition
you’d be a tangled mess,
limbs, organs, eyes,
a thing not quite
able to live.

As it was,
you didn’t.
That tubular heart
never beat.
Now I am
blank, scraped

Every month when I bleed
the pain of you returns.

M. Cynthia Cheung is a practicing physician in the United States who also writes poetry.

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