A tiny mound of flesh, as harmless as the sparrow's egg
forged out of love or lust
the deed was done and so I came to be.
In my pulsing cocoon I lay
an unknown visitor devoid of sight, flight or fight.
Soon my cocoon of shelter will change in readiness for my arrival
and I am looking forward to my birthday
as with ecstasy I long to gaze upon the faces
of those whose ***** I was forged out of.

I hear voices and a gruff voice says "stigma"
I wonder if it is my mother's name or my fathers'.
Too many voices but it seems we are going to see the doctor.
My infantile mind says that must be my father's name
but  why does Stigma and Doctor seem to me an unusual combination?
Though I can't feel, each part of me fears this trip.
Even though I am yet to meet these strangers I hear
My little feet try to break the barrier between my world and theirs
and yet my hands stay folded unwilling to stretch out and help.

I was forcefully ripped and torn apart
hacked to pieces by one whose honorable name
is engraved on a metal plate somewhere on a hospital door
In my prime, gone before my time
bud in flame, nipped in society's name
A genius waiting to be unveiled turned voice of an aborted future.
The deed that made me ashen cold now lies somewhere in a plastic bin,
sent to a distant land by the hands of those who forged me
never to return from my errand.

My passing was celebrated with two cups of tea
and a smile of congratulation from Doctor to Stigma.
Before my ears were gone, I heard them call me fetus and
wish me a happy birthday.
My name is Fetus, I am sixteen weeks old...
How soon they forget me, their nameless, faceless, lifeless child.
But a voice says to me, can a woman forget her ******* child
that she should not have compassion on the child of her womb?
Yes, they may forget, yet will I not forget you.