There is a tiny little matter called bodily autonomy: the idea that your body belongs to you and you can do with it whatever you want. It also means that you get to decide what is done and isn’t done to your body. It’s why you can’t be forced to donate blood or an organ; it’s why dead people are buried with organs that could be useful to people languishing in hospitals; they did not consent to have their organs donated. We get that, right? So how come we don’t get that the choice to abort, or not, should entirely be a woman’s; that the only way the government and other people should be involved in this, is if they are providing legislation that makes safe abortions every woman’s right and minding their business respectively.

Are we saying dead people have autonomy but pregnant women don’t?

Below is a piece on #prochoice. It provides a nuanced perspective to a debate that honestly, shouldn’t be one.

The author wishes to stay anonymous.

My Dearest Yellow,

I think about you sometimes. Actually no, I think about you a lot.
How maybe you have my eyes or smile. Or my laugh! Or that funny walk!
God, you are a glorious sight. You are perfection in all it’s spleandor.
But how you came to be is evil, in all it’s way.
It’s excruciating and dirty and loveless.
I don’t know whether you are meant to be. Whether you are supposed to exist; in my mind, in my heart, in my bones.
I mean, why can’t I just let you let go?
See, I need to but the thought of it alone is so emptying.
It is like my life is pouring out of my body and taking with it my joy.
All I know is that I have this big, black hole in my soul and a heart so hollow.
But maybe this is punishment I need to live with.
Maybe I need you, my yellow.
Thing is, I don’t think I love you. I don’t know if I love you.
You are like a perfect combination of love and pain.
I don’t want to feel pain when I think of you.
You deserve the deepest and purest adoration. It is not right. I am not right. I am in pain.
I am in pain and I am afraid of people actually seeing it.
I am in pain and I am afraid of people seeing me bleed.
See, I am not right.

Love,
A hurt heart.