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?

Can you live with the 'could of's'?
I will have to now,
Or not.

I could have kept you company when the world deserted,
The gift that kept on giving, per say.
Or not.

It's irrelevant how we came to be in each others space
I was there at the end
Or not.

We didn't ask for this
We both just received.
I hope the hands that were wiped clean
were fresher than the sheets.

I could have changed the world, yours for definite.
I could have scaled the charts, my star brightest among them all.
Or not.

Of course I could have brought shame to your last name.
Dragged you down and ruined opportunities
Doing what you did could be a new start, set you free.
Or not.

Did it make you wary of the world, every action and reaction?
every lingering glance curbed by memories in the stirrups.
You could add branches to your tree in the future
Or not.

For a story never to be told, this is my time capsule, my floating space in history, where a never will be meets what could have been and my bleeding heart pours out its buckets of blood before turning back to endless, changing life.

I don't know what to call you.

It feels too sentimental and cruel to call you my baby when from the second I knew you existed I knew you were a bundle of cells I was unfit to hold. That you were a less than 1%, an accident, a medical anomaly that caused my body far more harm than good. Its all so easy and clinical to know if A meets Y then X must occur until the scenario plays out before your baffled eyes. But how can I call you a baby when you were doomed from the start?

Every moment you were in my body, I was painfully ill. I don't know if I've ever been that all-consumingly sick in my life. Coming from someone who suffered crippling bipolar disorder and suicidal ideation, its a hard pill to swallow. But I was dying with you.

Less than a week without you and I feel better than I have in over a month. I feel human again. I feel I can finally be myself again.

So why do I feel something hollow within me, then?

Maybe its less about you and more what you meant. Only a little over a month in and I was miserable, in constant pain, nausea, and exhaustion. Near the end of your tenure I wanted the whole ship to go down sometimes. The only thing that kept me floating, horribly, tragically, was the knowledge it would all be over soon. It would all be over without you.

Living 10 weeks with you made me accept I don't think I can ever have another you. Not my A, not my love's X. I'm too sick. Losing you doesn't hurt when I know you wouldn't have lived well. Losing you hurts because I don't think I could survive 9 months carrying a different one I could keep. Not even if I prepared for it.

The idea of loving a kid someone else blossomed is something I've never minded. Beautiful, smiling cheeks are on all little wild ones. But the idea of accepting I don't get the choice of having one that has its father's devious smirk, or its uncle's laugh, or its grandmother's kind eyes, all because I'm too sick?

It breaks my heart.

Losing you is one more way my body has failed me. It feels like some patchwork tug boat carrying a resilient sailor, convinced to keep it going. And of course I will, I always persist. I just might have to accept I never will be strong enough for any passengers.

I love my family. I love my partner. I just wish I didn't have to throw away their beautiful genetics and chromosomic heritage because my body can't do what it should.

It wasn't just you I aborted last week. It was recent, over-optimistic, flyby dreams that maybe I could have someone like you. At least I learned I was wrong before I flew too far away.

And for now we focus on other things with words and videos and creative explosions. Its no time for wombs and their disappointments. Despite the pain its caused me, its time for me to get back to treating my old, patchy tug boat well. Sadly it had to happen to you, however, the story of me is not aborted.

Like all unsunken ships, I have to carry on.