I used to believe
that God made men from clay,
delicately molding their bodies
until after breathing life, extracted a rib
and formed me.
And I stood before my Adam
and he stood before his Eve
and we were in love for approximately seventeen seconds,
before we became ash again
and were scattered across the entire universe.
“You,” God said to me, “you will spend your entire life searching
For your match
So that your heart
Can stop slipping out
At the first glance.”
Don’t you want to be whole?
The newspapers, magazines, and tv screens screamed.
Don’t you want someone who completes you?
For a time,
When I felt like a clay pot shattered on cement floor,
I wanted to be whole
I wanted to find my other half
I wanted to believe that when a man pulled on my hips
And kissed my lips
That this was my entire reason for being here.
So I spent time forcing ribs that did not match
To form a cage
And my heart still bled.
I pushed ribs together, stitched them in place
so desperately and frantically
they punctured lungs
and I could not breathe.
And then the feminists with their devil tongues
held my hand with their glitter
whispering in my ear,
what if you are already whole?