My belly is round
and hard
and empty.
I think about babies
growing inside me,
tiny tummy aches
with bones
and skin
and fingernails.
I think about weather,
and whether or not
we will have destroyed the world
in ten years’ time,
and if all of the people,
the bones and skin and fingernails,
will be gone.
I think about whether
in ten years’ time
my belly will be growing
or if maybe
the planet will be round
and hard
and empty.
I find that I put too much time and energy into worrying about the future. I’ve never been capable of living in the present. I often think about how the world is going to end. Over coffee with friends, “How old do you want to be when you die?” It’s an icebreaker that isn’t always well-received. I’m not a morbid or pessimistic person — I just have an overactive imagination. This poem happened one night lying down in bed staring at my stomach. I imagined what it would be like to be pregnant. I tried to picture my life 10 years from now, and kept myself awake worrying about whether or not the world will still exist.
Featured image by Sarah Hamilton
