‘pain associated with ovulation’
Part of me died on the doctor’s table
Burnt away, scalpel cut,
I can feel it in the metal dish.
Flesh twitching beneath the surgeon’s knife,
Abnormal lesions destroyed.
I wonder how she can do it,
Cut someone else’s body,
But still blame their period,
Instead of seeing the chronic illness.
She cut the endometriosis out of me.
Curling up around a heat pack
With pain erupting across my body
Is now apparently a thing of the past,
Who am I if not chronically ill?
They took my identity away from me,
In diagnoses and laparoscopic surgery.
I sit in pain still, but not as much,
And not for as long. But can I still
Call myself ill if I’m not writhing
In pain, unable to see, or think.
By Emily Buckley
Emily is an English Literature and Creative Writing undergraduate student at Lancaster University, and a passionate poetry student taking classes with Eoghan Walls and Paul Farley. She has been featured in Flash Literary Journal, and won second place in their 2020 Freshers Writing Competition with her hybrid piece She Stood on the Doorstep. Originally from Manchester, Emily’s poetry focuses on sexuality, religion, and chronic illness.