DO I EVER MEET THEM AFTER?
post-mining and refining, these gems trapped in blood mines
I slave at the pick, and months later, I get a letter. The stationary
was chosen. It says “thank you for making me…” as if
it was out of anything other than self-preservation, I melted
at your seams and now some chick is displaying your kintsugi
in her cabinet. My saving throw is imagining the curious guest
peering in and saying, “who made this?”
I think I just wouldn’t want them anymore. Maybe
your edges are what enticed me. Smooth sounds too close to
small, “fucked” too close to fun. I’m the first successful barren
surrogate, so giving, fruitful, echoing against the walls
of a womb. I found Kaitlyn’s monogrammed sweater at
the thrift, and I feel like I know her. Don’t we learn the most
about people from what they throw away? She’s a size bigger
and a garment lighter. I imagine she is better for it; the only
reason you give up something made for you is if
it no longer fits.
Lydia Buzzard is a medical student and writer raised in Western Kentucky. Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize. You can find her on X at @lydiabuzzard.
