There’s something so mystical about making love to a pregnant woman.
Some choose to find it uncommon, disgusting, an act of madness
But the act of bedding a carrier is somehow magical.
It’s got to do with her heavy breast carrying more liquid than I’ve ever cried my whole life
Her breasts, round thick swollen mild on their way to provide
Its got to do with her hormones and how out of place she feels
How unhuman and unparalleled she feels with the life inside of her
She feels like she trapped a soul.
Its how much of an emotional state she’s in, how she yearns to be embraced
To her its not just sex but wanting to feel like a woman again and complete.
It has got to do with her heartbeat.
How it beats exceedingly fast like the drumbeat of naked angels dancing for ritual sacrifice.
How soft and gentle you have to be with her.
Having had your fingertips branded with mature comings or almost waterbreak.
Her belly shaped like a wish in Easter; the fall in Christmas; the blooms in spring.
A wish waiting to burst open.
Carriers tend to give the most honest moans, releasing a fountain of juices
Curling in something like whip cream out of her fragile doorway
Making love to a carrier is like making love to glass, fragile.
Im strained with the burden of putting her inplace again
The willing burden of embracing her heavy wet breasts
She feels uneasy
So she best rest on my chest
And they sleep
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