Uterine fibroids. Growing like poppies. Hard, flat, oval, heavy. Eggs. Knots (long unbreakable knits of frustration, suppression). One convulses, desperate somersaults. Another forces itself like an alien birth exploding. (Craggy underneath — or is it my dreams.)
Dream of a pale stone breaking the skin, emerging.
Dream: sliced like thin scallop disks.
Woman in miniature.

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I've become very proactive in my dreams, saying what needs to be said, channeling math geniuses in times of need, lecturing, screaming (if warranted), ranting — while awake — it's indifference; battles won and lost are battles repeated, will repeat while dreams are disconnected and end and maybe that's life too and we need scissors to remove narrative, gene splice out of existence that fantasy of continuity only at the end of the day what's there but indifference.

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I clench my jaw at night like a bad actor. Also during the day. As I age there is no difference, night and day Petri dish of low-grade anxiety, a clench prep for those little assault that cleanse the inside out of a perfect day.