They say it scars you for life!

They say it consumes your soul!

They say you never get over it!

They say a lot of things …

Am I so

different?

Or maybe?

I’m

just

Indifferent!

Who knows?

I don’t know

I really don’t know

I often peek inside the rusty old bucket of dead babies that I keep in the loft

And?

I feel nothing

Not a **** thing

Feeble

Formed

Foetuses

Swirling around and around and around

and around and around

and around

Why is it that I have no pain?

Why do I not crave my dead babies?

I couldn’t even tell you when they fell out

When they made a run for it

When they thought “**** this …. I’m out of this *****”

Does that make me a bad person?

Would it be more acceptable if I was distraught and inconsolable?

Then you could all pat me on the back and collect my tears

Well ….

Heres the news …

“There’s NO ******* tears here, baby!”

So you all can take your sanctimonious ******* and shove it straight up your sympathetic compassionate arses

In fact

I’ll even lay a wager that if this was

YOU

YOU

would run

through

Imaginary birthdays

Imaginary names

Conceptions

Etc

"Sshhhh ….. Don’t mention babies in front of her"

She is so fragile

Full of so much love

A tiny delicate little flower

Full of so much love

MILK IT *****

COS TONIGHT I’LL BE HOWLING AT THE MOON SURROUNDED BY DANCING DEAD BABIES