My grandmother’s womb fell out of her one day.
I need you to know this. I need you to know that you won’t find me in my eyes or my words or my smile. If you want to know me—to really know me—you need to look into my womb. You need to examine my mother’s womb. You need a moment inside my grandmother’s uterus. Allow me to jumpstart any exploration by revealing this to you from the very start: my grandmother’s womb falling out of her was the very least of our collective matrilineal womb woes.
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