Weighted blankets are supposed to remind people of the womb but when I wake up in darkness, unable to stretch my limbs—covered in my own body fluid, too—I feel the womb might not have been so great. All I remember from birth is the light. When my eyes went cross, and when my mother cried because I had to wear an eyepatch for two years. The flies stuck to the tape hanging from the ceilings of my parents’ home. In every room, I was less and less of a person. Brown carpet that blended with the hardened dog shit made every day a “wear your socks” day. I didn’t go barefoot until my early twenties. Even now, I leap over wet spots, can’t connect with the joy some people get from jumping into puddles. It couldn’t have been that bad. The womb. The nestling. One of the only places where it’s certain you’ll grow. My head still fits neatly into most warm places. My cat paws at the glass window, a different kind of breaking free.
Micaela Walley is an MFA candidate at the University of Baltimore. Her work can be found in HuffPost, ENTROPY, Gravel, and Hobart. She currently lives in Hanover, Maryland with her best friend, Chunky, the cat. You can follow her on twitter @micaela_poetry.