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My vagina has been drooling for nine days. The saliva isn’t acid rain this time around. There is warmth. The ridged tube, a crockpot. Warm broth swallows down a sore throat; fluids escape me in gulps. Her mouth is softened and slugged open. Little peach pits tied to my womb have sustained a stabbing sensation on a strobe. Their silent scenes highjack my focus. I’m buffering. Someone press play already. A turnover is in sight, but it evades me.  All writers of emotion have requested time off, and I’m restless and sore. Realities no longer exist in all pain or all peace within me. Perhaps they never have.