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Birth, the Production Line

by Alisa Blanchard

Right now, the rights to my body are being sold And I tumble like scraps into the trash can Knowing my remaining worth is misplaced Into the void of methane growth Amassed by the systems Pathologies and labels adorn my body And stories of the correct way to be submissive Return As assaultive reminders accumulate The fact I cannot be trusted with my own body Apparently to question absolute authority I must ransack and pillage my temple Or completely sever ties to judicial reflection Sterile images and threads Weave around my body like braids Captivating me in their hold I am hard, clean and easy to read Like numbers on a chart Or curves on a monitor Printed ink on paper Leave no room for the mural on the wall, The shelves of picture books and journals, iPod full of songs, That write complete story of me And forever I remain a name spoken incorrectly By eyes peering down As I am strapped to the barricade of Machine, tests, drugs, and games Until I fully surrender my whole To this wild experiment Without voice And kept warm in a blanket of shame.

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