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Twice I’ve terminated pregnancies.
Twice I’ve marveled at my body as it exercised its potential.
Twice I’ve chosen to defer its work.
Twice I’ve mourned the identity I held before becoming “one of those”.
Twice I’ve struggled to distinguish my purpose from what’s perceived to be my body’s purpose.
Every day is lived in honour of these decisions.
I love my abortions.
I love my Self, and my Self is not just this part of my body.
Pro-life/anti-abortion posters drive me fucking mental. They're the most distasteful, misleading, inherently "ughh!" things... I can't.
This photo fascinates me. My second abortion. My lil' lump - what a 4 to 5 week "fetus" actually looks like. It showed up in my undies after the Misoprostol expelled it from my uterus. It made me marvel at my body and reminded me of my privilege. It still does. It lives with my apple tree.