you have to break a few eggs to make an omelet

I am standing in this line
waiting for my number to be called,
broken egg in my belly,
and the man in front of me turns and says,
"Hey baby, what's your name?
Where do you come from?
Will you be around when i get off?"
I'm just a woman
from uterus number 5
somewhere in Montana.
my face won't be one you'll see
when you're getting off.
Waiting for repair
I think of the painful way
my egg was shattered
a thousand times at once.
A quarter of my precious life
is spent mourning anonymous babies.
I'm only here for retribution,
payback the damage that's been done
to me and this purple tar
gushing from my womb.
You say I'm not a woman
unless I feel it flow.
You don't know a damn thing
when I'm in my bloody moods.
This thing came from my body,
I've worn it for ten years.
I've carried it inside me
like a million tears.
It cries from it's oppression,
it wails upon release,
but i know until
you stop holding doors for me
it will never sleep.
It will consume my sisters and I
just like your bearded face--
it is the symbol of my gender,
still the keeper of my gate.

I wake to pain at two AM
return to bed with cotton
stuffed between my legs.
To make a proper omelet
you gotta break a couple eggs.