Opening - Bella Melardi

I slice into an orange,
skin clinging to flesh.

It splits,
puckered tendons,
small teeth insisting:
my centre is not yours.

You text:
I’m punished for your sins,
for the shape of my silhouette.

You touch me.
I am left open.

Inside, I swell.
Outside, I burn.

My body asks:
How could you?

My cervix claws at my bladder
hurts me first,
before you ever could.

In other words
I developed a bladder infection

I tell you, I am in pain
And you respond

We die in war with men
You die in war with your bodies
Men make war,
when silence ferments
under their skin.

Mine rots inside me.
I am built to endure

My centre is scarred,
Moldy,
festering.

I press the orange to my abdomen.
Clench.
It gives.

Segments burst in my hands,
juice slipping loose,
sticky,
running down my stomach,

and for a moment
everything blurs together,
My legs burn,
As much as my insides.