After the bleeding ceased,
I was supposed
to be

okay. There would be no more sharp things
inside me,
and even better,
nothing left for them to slaughter.

(My dead baby, pelted with thorns,
knows why roses
are red.)

Yet
I am still hurting. I
am not empty like I should be.

When the dry ache turns sharp, I still
think
that someone
is kicking their way to my heart.