She stubbed her toe.
And she did something about it.
Without letting me know.
Ended it.
I wonder what that means.
It was her choice.
I will never argue otherwise.
And my ego may ask
What is it about me
that she would so quickly
make that choice?
Late at night with my head on the pillow
I imagine what it would have been like.
Pushing a carriage
or changing diapers.
But the timing was off.
And sometimes
timing is everything.

Dear little  one
You only grew to the size of a cherry
I should have buried you
Im sorry i was scared
Im sorry i chose my life over yours
I know im not your mommy
But if i was i know id be the most proud
I would keep all your art
I would go to all your school functions
Im sorry i didnt keep you
Im sorry i was to young
Know that momma loves you
Know that you're my one
One day when we meet
i know it wont be sweet
Ill have questions to answer
And forgiveness to beg
But when we meet i hope i can be the mommy you deserve

My baby moves in jumps and flutters inside me,
like the barn swallows that make nests
of dirt and twigs outside the restaurant.
Yesterday they disappeared
and I learned that a maintenance man came and hosed them down.  
Tragic, he said.
But necessary.  
Too much bird ****.  
When I got pregnant
it felt like waking up at the top of a roller coaster.
And then an engagement.  
Somehow
this is how my life is going
and somehow it does not feel like cliche.
Ask as many what-ifs as you want
but there is just a single trajectory.
Even though you have to fall asleep one day
before waking in the next.
Moving through concentric circles and trying to find the center.
Biology is happening
in a part of me that I am still getting to know.  
Kaleidoscoping.
She was once the size of a grape
but now I read she can blink her eyelids.
She is also not like the barn swallows.

She was thick, erubescent.

Advised not to give her my eyes, I stared:

she was haloed by the diaphanous seat

which held me when she shifted.

Flourishing fiercely, defiant,

she glowered, staining porcelain

like pink tipped damasks; a Fauvist impression.

I believe if she’d had a tongue

she would have screamed,

scolded me for my selfishness-

shrieking as the sorceress’ slain offspring.

My heart cringing, heavy lids like two tomb doors

shielding me like from her quiet contention,

I summoned the scrubs to put her out.

The eyes that pierce me,
with threats beyond words.
I cant help what im going through.
I can't have it; no not at all.
Can't live without me,
but i dont want it inside me.
I can't have it... I can't.
It's my choice;
isn't it?
I cry and I cry.
But they don't care bout my pain,
They care about the cell who cant even ******* breath yet.
The cell that can't let me breath yet.
The cell that was forced upon me, the cell that hurts me
when i even try to think about it.
That's the cell they care about....
not me.
                                               yours truly,
                                                          ­     . . .

I have so many ideas swirling through my
Head, I never know which ones to write
Down, which ones to commit to memory,
Which ones to care for like my child.
So many of my thoughts I abort, and
For different reasons.  
Maybe this idea will slowly corrupt my mind,
Maybe it will harm someone else.  
Maybe it will be worthless in time,
Maybe it is already too old.
Yet what should I do with these
Thoughts I’ve aborted?
Just because I’ve discarded them,
Doesn’t mean they’re entirely forgotten.
Does a mother ever forget an aborted child?
Does she forget the feeling of the child in her womb,
The raging hormones, the night of conception?
Of course not.
My ideas are the same,
Still there in the back of my mind,
Wanting to be alive,
Breathing, Functioning.
If you had an idea that would stop
World hunger, create world peace,
Find the cure to cancer, or
Stop humans from harming the earth,
Would you **** it?
Then why would you do the same to
A child who could have those ideas?