i’m leaking thick, blue goo out my vagina.
i am a dying star collapsing in on myself. pain is a leviathan that cannot be touched. instead, it consumes me in a way that tears me apart from the inside out. my transition to black hole is imminent, sucking in passersby via gravitational pull until there’s nothing left. i’d prefer being any other kind of hole.
my gynecologist referred me to imaging, continuing our search for a diagnosis. so here I am, leaking.
they had left me three full syringes to inject myself. you put it in like a tampon, and shoot it up, the technician instructed, pointing to the setup. the plastic on the disposable syringe is sturdy but pliable: thick enough to withstand external pressure, but flexible enough to bend to the contours of my rubenesque frame and the will of my untamed body.
i find myself captive on a spaceship. i am to be scanned for anomalies. strapped down by swathes of velcro and polyester, my captors pad me down and stuff me into a pod. my body is a flesh vessel that i am forced to confront the limitations of every day, but never quite like this. i remind myself how special i am that they noticed and chose me. they could have picked a healthier specimen, but instead, they said fuck it, we ball and plucked me out from above.
i’m glad space hasn’t been colonized yet because disability does not play the same games that capitalism does. there aren’t enough spoons to place within the structure. a disabled trick, a crip flip, they want me as an ideal example of humanity! pelvic pain, spicy mind, busted guts and all!
one out of ten people with a uterus lives with endometriosis. most of those who receive a diagnosis do so only after a decade’s worth of pelvic pain. i don’t expect anything on the scans, my gynecologist said, but insurance won’t cover surgery unless a patient gets an ultrasound and MRI first.
and now i float across the stratosphere in my cramped silver- and cream-colored pod as it hums, buzzes and throbs. i realize that i am part of everything, and everything is part of me.
is this ego death? people claim you lose consciousness, your ego disappears and you, as an individual, become part of a greater microcosm. i’ll do or be whatever if it means i don’t have to subsist under capitalism anymore—i’ll tell them anything they want to hear.
an alien releases me from my cramped pod, twisting my limbs out of restraints and shouldering the weight of my grotesque rotundity when I don’t react fast enough. before tossing me out of the room for the next patient, my abductor hands me a generic-brand sanitary pad, warning me with a cautious tone, you’re going to need this.
she hurries away, gesturing toward the locker room for me to change. when i whisk myself behind the curtain, i peel off the drab, oversized hospital gowns—an extra one for decency, so my ass doesn’t play a central role in the imaging theatre. throwing them into the heap of used linens, i cringe: beyond my gravity, the bundle is tinted a damp tinge of blue.
Christa Lei (they/them) grew up in Hawaii. Their intersectional identities as fat, mad, crip, queer, polyamorous, and child of the Filipinx diaspora inform their work. Their writing has appeared in Breadfruit and Saffron City Press. When not facilitating community care, they create shared futures with their spouse and two dogs in New York City. Connect with them on Instagram (@supchrista) or at christalei.me!
Header photograph and artwork by Jordan Keller-Wilson
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