She was never sure it was what she wanted,
arguing with a man who wanted her to carry a piece of them both.
But sure enough a small bump formed,
and from the first heartbeat she fell in love.

Everything from then on was tiny socks in tiny shoes,
fluffy cribs in shades of pink and blue.
Excitement and worry and fierce protection,
arms curling on top of her belly in intense affection.

But when the time came, something went horribly wrong,
when there was no screeching and crying to break the calm.
A child, still, unusually peaceful and serene,
she held the tiny shell where her baby should have been.

Everything in her life reminded her of her pain,
and nothing inside her could ever be the same.
Not even he could understand,
how she was stranded in her ****** wasteland.

Clothes and toys quickly packed in a box,
her body still creating milk for a being that would never grow.
she'd have to find a way to move on, living with the constant ache,
of the loss of a person she would never know.

I imagine her name is Lavender,
the woman behind the counter of the Yankee Candle.
Her face is creased with the years she's lived,
her hair but desperately dyed blonde tendrils.

She's not an ugly woman,
in fact, I'm sure she was once beautiful,
the kind of beautiful that men clawed each other's eyes out for.
She probably gave them a red-lipped smirk,
complained about their advances, but secretly loved it.
She probably had trouble holding on to female friends.

Now, she is an echo of that woman.
Still beautiful, but existing in her fading forties.
Small frame, careful makeup.
I wonder why it makes me so sad to look at her.