today i saw my cervix wall and the little white imperfections where it is supposed to be salmon pink. she is giving me a biopsy, which is a long metal instrument scraping my cervix wall, which she then taps into a petri dish the nurse holds like a dinner plate. the instrument resembles something like salad tongs. i breathe, wince, into my discomfort— she apologizes. “it's OK,” i say. the moment she finishes i want to cry long and hard into the white starchy hospital sheet but the nurse is finishing my paperwork, saying, “just a sec and I'll be out of your way.” “no problem,” i say. i've waited this long.
today my “i” is too small and i know someone has said this before but today i am saying it.
leaving, i want to tell someone, and don't know whom. i want comfort. a friend comes over and i cook us dinner. we watch Better Off Dead— exactly what i need. he shows me the work he's gotten on his backpiece and i twinge slightly, just slightly, with jealousy. i'd never want that much ink. that much of me covered. but right now, it sounds appealing.
