"strollers" poems
The line didn't move, though there were not
many people in it. In a half-hearted light
the lone agent dealt patiently, noiselessly, endlessly
with a large dazed family ranging
from twin toddlers in strollers to an old lady
in a bent wheelchair. Their baggage
was all in cardboard boxes. The plane was delayed,
the rumor went through the line. We shrugged,
in our hopeless overcoats. Aviation
had never seemed a very natural idea.
Bored children floated with faces drained of blood.
The girls in the tax-free shops stood frozen
amid promises of a beautiful life abroad.
Louis Armstrong sang in some upper corner,
a trickle of ignored joy.
Outside, in an unintelligible darkness
that stretched to include the rubies of strip malls,
winged behemoths prowled looking for the gates
where they could bury their koala-bear noses
and **** our dimming dynamos dry.
Boys in floppy sweatshirts and backward hats
slapped their feet ostentatiously
while security attendants giggled
and the voice of a misplaced angel melodiously
parroted FAA regulations. Women in saris
and kimonos dragged, as their penance, behind them
toddlers clutching Occidental teddy bears,
and chair legs screeched in the food court
while ill-paid wraiths mopped circles of night
into the motionless floor.
10.3k
When I opened my eyes I sat in this body.
The wind ran through thick black hair.
Grass surrendered under my heels.
I didn't hate myself then, or yet, or ever.
Even now, when I part the clouds and look down down,
squinting into the tops of trees that were in my yard.
In the last home I knew, gentle hands fed me food.
We joked and my eyes smoldered for their pictures.
Why did they always take so many pictures?
You probably think I'm angry I had to leave like this.
That with one terrified bullet from two firmly planted hands,
my might and power and God given beauty did not move.
I remember that moment. The air was swept from my lungs,
through my lips, and two angels descended on my animal form.
My soul wound around one of their slender gray fingers,
while the other angel folded up my skin into a cavernous pocket.
We ascended into lush tropical rich radiant paradise--who knew?
Animals are allowed here.
Sometimes I wonder what might have happened if I could have morphed into human form in the right moment.
When I became human, they became animal.
You see, an animal is that which is unpredictable and wild;
terribly aggressive.
But people were scared. Now they have more reason to lock up
their kids behind bright little screens as they push them in secure strollers.
"Look at this game. Isn't it fun? Mommy's here. You're in a belt. You are
safe."
I just heard a sob from below. As I think these thoughts, I can sense
she is crying and missing me, missing a creature she never knew.
She sees God in me. She sees God in everything around her.
To shoot me was to shoot her spirit in the chest, to watch the blood
form in pools while people watched and put away their cell phones
and pushed their strollers to the next set of bars. On to more eyes that hide their secrets from the humans.
[in memory of Harambe the Gorilla]
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 12:35 AM UTC
Tall round beams standing
in salty water, connecting
fishermen and star-fish gazers
with a moon-shaped bay
on the eastern Pacific.
They stand on land and step into sea,
as rolling barrels from Arctic grounds
tickle their lower legs.
A centipede of wood, this
outward- jutting wharf.
The fishermen sink expectant hooks;
the surfers haul shiny glass
banana-shaped boards of foam;
the weekenders come posing
baby strollers for picture shooting.
Each passing wall of blue
energy slows at reach of
shallow sand, deciding
whether to keep rolling or
transform into a steep stack
of snapping water. On big days
the sea legs shake all the
fishermen. They lock away
their sacrificial bait in rusty boxes
and collapse their fibered rods.
On calm days I step out to a
wooden bench and hang my
face between the rails. Running
people pass below, between the
knotted hips and creosoted thighs.
August buries this preserve
in such drizzle. Gulls go bundling
inside their sleek robes
of white feather, leaning
windward on worn bent knees.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 10:30 PM UTC
the earth will always be there for you.
although sometimes it shakes, for now, it is still and you may sit or stand or lay on it for as long as you'd like. and if you stay there long enough you may feel gravity gently tugging you lower, lower,
lower into the earths core to rot
for we are all simple satellites orbiting the earth; born high in arms and strollers we slowly learn to crawl, walk, run, limp, walk again, hunch over in age -- and no matter how many airplanes we ride high in the sky, everyday we are dragged a little more, sagging a little bit more, into death of the earth and of the bones. gravity is a constant reminder that one day our parents put us down and never picked us up again, and that soon enough the earth will drag our bones into the soil and earth from whence we came.
for it was there, in you, in birth; and soon you will be there, in it, in death.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 1:02 AM UTC
5 million angels of God with a shortage of love
10 million small feet without a heaven to call their own
orphans of a lost war, children of hunger and distress
the loving nest in their parents arms got blown to shreds.
So they suffer, innocent souls that have no were to hide
in tears of pain, in between heaven and hell Muhammed walks
in a drone strike a child’s future in the last thing on anyone’s minds
Every day war mongers cultivate the future enemies of this land.
Suffer the little children, the infants, the school kids, the toddlers
In the hot desert sand burn and riddled with bullets lie their rotting corpses
their small eyes staring blank into infinity and no one dares to close them
sleeping on ravaged streets barely out of their strollers.
Wish I could send my useless hands to heal their wounds
the American invasion of Iraq became their tombs.
Suffer the little children in sulfur
victims of greed, lust for power and oil
pray to Allah every night to care for them
children without a future, victims of a war they didn’t deserve.
And so they suffer.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC
I am hopeful now
Walking the seawall straightens me out
The clouds and the waters
One foot in front of the other
Walking the seawall
To my day to day
The choices I've made
One foot in front of the other
Dogs on leashes
Babies in strollers
Or on daddies in front
The seawall
Windy and peaceful
One foot in front of the other
Birds eat
Fresh crab meat
The circle of life
Tug of war
One foot in front of the other
Runners run.
Cyclists, bike
Childs play
The walk to work
One foot in front of the other
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 5:32 AM UTC
White, calloused hands
Gripping white soft belly
Bushy white hair
Rubbing clean white face
Unfurling smoke rising
Rising like the tide on a full moon
Into blue sky
Blue as the ocean itself
Lakes north of the Twin Cities
Life living liberally under rocks
Death staring darkly from the depths
Moon glowing brightly above
Train brakes screech
The passengers rustle a bit
Black as the night
Hard as a rock
Rampant youths file into the alley
Raging inside
Ranting out
Rigid bones cease
The drug addicts plead mercilessly
With their alter ego
More more more
**** **** ****
The businessmen do their fast walk
And the women do their little sway
Walking dogs and walking strollers
Clinically insane they repeat
Dark blond hair
Ripped jeans
Tighter than skin
Gay shoes
Beautiful brunette
Big *** ****
Smirking smile
She knows she’s hot
Random dudes street talking
Random chicks street banging
Random kids street dealing
Random guys finish the job
Men in work clothes
Buy love symbols for their niece
And rock shows for their nephew
But nothing for their sons
Watching the sunset
Watching the moon rise
Watching the tides roll
Watching you fake it all
Justine took all the pills
She’s passed out on the futon
This basement gives me chills
I think I heard someone call 9-1-1
Someone in uptown died tonight
Shot
On the street
Blood rained like rain
Red towels from the hotel
Stolen again
Marriot’s free swimming pool
Cost me 800 dollars
*** and drugs combined
Rugs and thugs
And enemy teams
Gunshots, gun fights
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 4:31 PM UTC
Central Park transformed,
a natural stadium
of tourists, strollers,
drunk on:
spring beer Buds,
or
buds of forsythia
maps upside down,
smiles right-side up
Amazing,
they don't even notice,
'walk on by,'
*the white shirted, black suited
unicorn playing the accordion*
or the
*violinist
imitating Charlie Chaplin,
playing both her instrument and
her hula hoop,
simultaneously*
ah Central Park,
your air is like
a first cup of spring,
a first morning coffee,
a fresh breath of
a special new,
if you know
how to
just be,
in NYC
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 10:08 AM UTC
people -- blue jeans -- t-shirts -- volleyball -- sparklers -- *** its -- stone bridge -- pine trees -- new trees -- old trees -- fireworks -- grass -- sonic boom -- picnic chairs -- bicycles -- oak trees -- bare neck -- tickles -- sneezing -- bless you -- slight chill -- cloud cover -- police cars -- policemen -- uniforms -- night sticks -- sweat pants -- baby strollers -- skull & crossbones -- muscle shirt -- sweat shirt -- baseball caps -- fountains of sparks -- greenery -- dandelions -- yellow weeds -- wafting smoke -- black man in white shirt -- white man in black shirt -- SUV -- Boxer dog -- red wagon -- smoke stacks -- asian couple -- running shorts -- acrid smoke -- ice cream truck -- double trees -- pony tail -- mosquitos -- fishing hat -- yellow truck -- handlebar mustache -- bad *** attitude -- shaved head -- balloon -- barbeque -- sunset -- affro -- tennis shoes -- multi-colored hair -- canoe -- golden purse -- playing band -- American flag -- folding chair -- name badge -- red, white, & blue -- skipping rocks -- cargo shorts -- matching couple -- bike path -- hippie hair -- low rider -- peace sign -- golden chains -- waning moon -- waxed legs -- hoodies -- striped shirt -- victory dance -- short shorts -- cigar smoke -- watermelon -- Viking's bag -- leopard skin jacket -- skooter -- digital camera -- creepy stalker dude -- tent building -- horeshoes -- personal space invaders -- glow sticks -- picnic basket -- cooler -- smoke bombs -- plaid skirt -- 77 sweats -- interracial couples -- motorcycle -- orange vest -- plastic ball -- face paint -- cops in two different uniforms -- split tree -- pregnant lady -- trash talking horeshoe player -- street lamps -- playing tag -- large blue cooler -- bright green pants -- humorless boy
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC
a scream of fusses in rustic reflections -- off again, forcing trust is a silent revolution for us. no blades with this parade; grasp hot coals without blinking and YES i am on top of the world. NO i can't feel a thing. Was it the destruction of senses that bordered our hesitance? Blank pages won't fade away with this operation. only collect dust. And i remembered to close this mouth. Eye contact at a minimum. Contradictions lead to continuous disagreement. i feel it even when your voice reverberates though this mind of mine, no real sounds, piles of old junk mail and fast food wrappers left to dye in the open sunlight. weren't we prepared for a battle? Fists up, intellect down. We have reports of a beast-infected stand-still. Plots to **** I keep my sketches in my pockets, next to packets of mild sauce and cigarette butts. Mistaken for less dangerous, but let's face the music while it still plays for us. Limited is what we have become. Pushing thoughts like empty strollers over bridges and ignoring the collision and the crowds that keep forming. oblivious, but not really... considering we chose this catastrophe. Drawing lines over famous portraits, orchestrating every moment. No regrets, no remorse. Broken bones and stolen show times. As we disguise our characters and dress them under fine white linen, we count the lines. we count the circles. we prepare for the unbroken. replacements are cheaper and easier to find. hollow, determined, violent. place fingertips on pointed objects and close those heavy eyelids. this is the ending. this is the awakening. this is what you wanted.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 9:10 PM UTC
It came quickly, roots
broke through marbled concrete
And vines draped off
balconies of skyscrapers
Floor to ceiling windows
disappeared behind ivy
Some beasts melted into shadows
around the corner as their
barks were adopted
by the wind and pushed
in strollers by the howl
and the cold bite
In the air, you could hear
unattended car alarms
And neon signs flickering
on and off as they hum like
a deathbed, EKG flat-line
Hanged stoplights
swayed back and forth
off streetlight arms
bent like telekinetic spoons
spinning like criminals
left on olive trees to die
And the drab color seemed
strangely magnetic and
right
I can swallow a pretty big storm
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 1:11 PM UTC
I walked out of my office today at noon
and slid into the stream of pedestrians -
the hipsters stroking their beards,
the pale professionals blinking in the sun,
mothers pushing strollers through the crowd
with more skill than a racecar driver
before I knew it, I walked past my lunch destination
I kept walking - and watching
the people of my town share a sidewalk
without attacking one another
for a moment I was tempted to take a picture
post it on online,
make a socio-political statement;
if people from all walks of life
can share the sidewalk
can we not find common ground?
I left my phone in my pocket - decided against
adding my unnecessary opinion to the
manufactured outrage
that is the sad truth of social media
I smiled at a pretty lady pushing her baby
she smiled back
and we shared a brief human moment
I kept walking
Nov 17, 2017
Nov 17, 2017 at 2:30 PM UTC
It hasn’t been as cold lately
The train of shopping carts rattles
Vibrate my forearms
Especially as I cross the yellow speed bumps on the ground
The city put those there to trip up skateboarders
And to confuse babies in strollers
Old women on walkers avoid them
There are things designed to make us slower
More careful
I think about my last poetry reading while filling the coolers
And don’t ask myself why when alone
I take myself to the places that make me most happy
My cashier asks me when he can go home
You do everything slower when
You keep yourself company
When you’re lonely
You’re not savoring moments
You just taking your time
Because you can
I set the alarms and lock the doors
The moon has been out for a while
I will go home and write
Everyone is asleep except for me
I crack open a few beers
Open the window so the moon can keep me company
Forever I thought there was something wrong with me
But I have learned
Like the moon
Some things will only shine in the nighttime
Not everything looks like gold under the sunlight
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 5:21 PM UTC
Tick Tock Strikes
The Clock. Their Numbers
Numbers Mocking Impure Me
Wishing For The Time To Pass Me By.
Women, Men, Children Question Infidelity
Teens On The Side Smoking Cannabis With No
Absolute Care. Little Children In Their Strollers
Tugging On Their Silky Strands Of Shiny Hair.
If Only I Was One Who Could Live With No
Care. I Watch Time Move Ever So Slow.
I Wish I Knew The Worse Of Me.
As The Time Then Freezes.
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 2:53 PM UTC
everything is
crowded.
I'm not sure what's
real and what's
fake, or what's
good and what's
bad, or even why
I am still
here and not at
home and just
sleeping
relaxing
letting
go.
Instead I am
here.
I am trapped between
four men and
three strollers and
too many
cowboy hats to even
remember how many there
actually are.
All I can
focus on is how
absolutely
terrified I
am and trying not to
disturb anyone but
also trying to
get enough air in my
lungs that I don't
suffocate.
But that's really
really
really
hard to do
especially now
especially here
So please excuse
me for a
minute if I
make myself
small
or if I start to
whimper
or if I
cry a little
bit.
It's nothing I can
help.
But the worst thing about
it is that when
you're afraid of
parties or
stepping into the pantry or
the city bus,
it sometimes feels like there's
nothing you can
help.
And trust
me when I
say that
almost nothing is more
painful than being
useless.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 1:19 PM UTC
Said, I can show you around the blackberry bush –
I planted it last summer, you know, that June you coasted
to university and stopped having crushes on cousins.
Said, you grew your hair long.
I toss it out the window many mornings:
dewdrops as a conditioner and tease strollers with
a crease by my armpit you like(d), my flab on the side –
I impress others now, men cling to the bottom of my skirt
and suckle on the hem to make each thread fray.
Said, but your knees feel dusty up against mine.
There is no big wide world, no plum summit skies below
the cuff of another person’s dress shirt –
just a watch. Remind me how much time I have left
until extinction, no hand held or hug goodbye:
this is a kingdom where nothing can die
and when it does, seeds are sown in the pelt of your heart.
Said, no, I bred this world for the fireflies.
Said, there are berry-droppings on your chin.
You look as if you’ve eaten licorice or caught lung cancer;
I wish you had, I wish I had never called you sugar.
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 12:49 AM UTC
The sun kissed the horizon
The plump Russian babysitters have
Strolled away with their strollers
Long ago.
But I watched her make dinner
On the bark stove she carved into her mind.
She set the table with her fanciest china,
Tonight was a special occasion
I presumed.
She placed a heaping plate of potatoes
On the flower-splattered tablecloth,
Made to match the grass growing
Underneath her feet.
I could almost see the steam rising
From a distance
As she scooped each golden yellow tater
One by one into each dish:
First, second, third.
How sweet,
She’s preparing for our family dinner.
It will be as likely as the willow branches,
Serving as her ceiling,
Will protect her from lightning.
It starts to pour
I start to leave
The horizon has swallowed the sun whole.
I want to run back and tell her
That the willow will not be the only one
Weeping
some day.
The branches will curl onto themselves
And the stove will rust with age
Until it can no longer be used.
I turn
Behind her still thin lenses she peers at me
With twinkling eyes;
Penetrating my already thick ones.
Her head is like a protrusion of the tree.
I want to go back and tell her
To run away with me
Far away from the willow.
But all I can manage is
A heavy yawn
Ready to swallow
The glowing beacon hanging by a thread
In the sky.
How time has flown by
And how I wish,
My little darling,
That my memory of you
Stopped haunting my dreams.
She wanted to tell me
The willow is not as ***** as it seems.
But I’m not meant to make such predictions.
With a regretful tear I turn away
And run up the hill
To what I thought was higher ground.
Maybe one day
She will greet the journey with a smile.
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 3:05 PM UTC
No two people
ever conceived by God
could possibly be more alike than us
We live our lives in perpetual hope
of Country Time Lemonade commercials
and old reruns of “Leave it to ******
We hope that, around the next bend
on a dusty, sun streaked road
we will find our Mayberry
That place where old men
weighing down sagging porches
speak in parable of better times
That place where young mothers
perpetually in their Sunday best
push strollers edged in brick-a-brack
That place where little boys
have impossibly grass stained knees
at the edge of muddy fishing holes
That place where little girls
pick Black-Eyed Susan's in verdant fields
and play at getting married while the little boys flee in terror
That place where dapper fathers
mow lawns in their shirtsleeves
and tip their pipes to one another in the falling afternoon sun
Together, we dream of this place;
this ideal;
this America.
Together we dream and, together, we continue
down that old dirt road;
hoping to find Mayberry
just around the next bend.
Mar 15, 2010
Mar 15, 2010 at 6:54 PM UTC
They cut down the old oak tree,
The only place I ever truly felt free,
On top of hawk hill
Its branches were tender arms
Its noble leaves full of mysterious charms
That oak tree and I- we were made of the same stuff
I was flesh soft and thin, he was wood thick and rough
But our essence, our core- it was the same
We were both something that no one could tame
I laid in his arms no matter the weather
And sap and blood throbbed together
It seems like places to hide
Just aren't around anymore
Though there used to be so many
I can't seem to find any
But lord knows I've tried
They clean my room
Mop, dust rag and rough broom
And take down the pictures, the memories tacked on the walls
And hide my old dolls
Because I'm too old to enjoy dolls
It seems like places of solace,
Secret and flawless
Really can't be found
Be they above or underground
I'm big to fit in my old tunnel
My secret, arcane land
Where I used to be able to stand
It seems like finding places of retreat
Has become an impossible feat
Places to love, places to pray
Where are they?
My spot in the basement
Magical despite the smelly mold fumes
Has been filled with old strollers and ripped costumes
It seems like places special and hushed
Have been annihilated and crushed,
Have all but disappeared
Isn't that weird?
But perhaps they have become so rare, so incredibly rare
Because we lack the art of simply receiving
We lack the art of simply perceiving
What is so freely given to us
We search instead of discover
Investigate but don't notice
We sift, unearth, and probe
But we lack practice in the delicate art
Of simply stumbling upon
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 1:39 AM UTC
framers and confounders,
gold-sifting pitch-shifting
plagiarist compounders,
dreamer cells --
all stragglers and strollers;
trollers, ex-tollers,
frontier comptrollers...
was a pupil for a day,
gave two eyes for an A,
said "I'll tell you what I see just
tell me what to say"
2 fore thoughts 2 free thoughts
of sons of freed slaves,
think tanks and barnacles abound:
I see twenty-six characters in need of an author
to try me line by line
'til beseeched and swayed
I reach the antithesis
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 9:54 PM UTC
Crowded rooms filled with all revealing
fluorescent light.
Patiently waiting faces of all colours,
painful bodies,
broken bones, damaged hearts,
crying babies in strollers.
Wheel chairs of the waiting rooms.
TV set announces bad weather,
and bad news in whispers.
GPs running the Marathon
of waiting rooms.
Next!
Ill-pronounced names by a nurse;
off to yet another chamber to wait.
Noon hour closed
for lunch.
Patiently waiting impatient,
and nervous patients
waiting endlessly
for the sentencing,
by the good doctors.
Appointments with death.
Out again
into rain
of the sick outside world,
last words of waiting rooms
wrapped up in pills.
(4-17-07)
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 3:50 PM UTC
sailboats at anchor
rocking slowly to and thro
small dogs barking high
frisking down the seawall
passing nannies and strollers
till i chase them back again
ringing my bicycle's bell
swooping around the corner
laughing in the wind
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 12:42 AM UTC
I love my mother
like the prodigal son,
she introduced me
to activism,
and where I'm at now
I can't release it,
even as we went
to the Lincoln Homes and Estates
to set up computers,
to give people that look like me
a chance.
I remember the older
dudes would tell me
to keep my head up
even when I was down.
There is a heart
in
"da hood"
as the white people
around me put it.
There are fathers
pushing strollers.
There are mothers
making it
against all odds.
There are families
decreasing,
but
increasing.
There are computers
full with words
and poetry
and novellas.
There are black children
picking up books
more than guns.
Picking up basketballs
more than guns,
and why should they be
labeled
as less intelligent?
****
they just want to get
out
and achieve
and it's wrong
that you say that's the wrong way.
I hate going to funerals
for faces
with cheekbones still heavy
with baby fat.
And don't love me
for telling you this,
don't love me
for being that "black guy
that talks about problems
in the ghetto,
da hood!"
Change it,
go there,
help people,
hand out books
to children.
There is nothing scarier
than ignorance.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 7:47 PM UTC
As fog covered my outside landscape I sat,
relaxing and aligning with poetic ideas
to scribe at later date.
The air was warm, as a faint scent of lavender entered nostrils. My human eyes couldn't make out anything more than a shadow but; my inner senses knew I wasn’t alone.
The being whispered adding fog to the room. With deepen breath it now made sense of my visitor recalling my art background. Remembering, my prayer just days earlier how I longed for a great maters of art to flow through me.
As moments passed, the blur became more distinct. There he stood before me adorned with painters hat and smock. With a smile as he held up a brush and made like he was painting my form.
I giggled with air of breeze. My third eye exploded with an image of Monet. He began to fill my mind with picturesque visions.
Flowers entered my eyes as I felt a creative power serge.
Fields of afternoon strollers adorned with paroles entered mind. And birds rustled in trees, as a flowing brook traveled within.
More scenes manifested. I could almost taste the sweet air running down my throat. When I was filled to capacity, he stopped and I understood. He was providing me with fuel for thought. Scenes to transcribe into poetic jargon.
As he bowed, and I whispered gratitude, he disappeared. I was again alone with my keyboard, dancing hands and vivid imagination tweaked with his talented light.
I now was ready to create on canvas screen and of course my new curator of verse, Monet.
Apr 14, 2019
Apr 14, 2019 at 7:44 PM UTC
I’m supposed to be happy right now
Fitting into dresses and stretch pants
And eating pickles
I’m supposed to be glowing
Watching my tummy grow
And picking out the perfect name
I would’ve known by now
Whether you’d be born a girl or boy
What color your room might be
I’m supposed to be emotional
But a different type than I am now
I’m supposed to cry over things
Like spilled milk
And unlikely animal friends
But I’m crying over emptiness instead
Loneliness
Fear
I’m not supposed to be sad right now
I’m supposed to be measuring my belly
And eating lots of fruit
Going to doctors
And listening to your tiny heartbeat
I’m supposed to be there
I’m supposed to be overjoyed
And excited
And worried
I’m supposed to be making plans
And decorating and redecorating
And driving your daddy crazy
I am supposed to be a mom
I should be looking at tiny clothes
And little shoes we’ll use once
Buying dehumidifiers and strollers
Reading pamphlets and dodging cravings
I should be complaining
About stretch marks and growing feet and sweaty palms
I should be loving every inch of you already
And struggling with stupid simple tasks
I should be moody
And impossible
And hungry
And eager to meet my tiny human
My sweet baby
My whole heart...
But I’m not.
I’m supposed to be pregnant
And I’m not
I’m supposed to be waiting for you
And I can’t
Because I lost you.
Because you’re already gone.
And all I have left of you is memories
Of cravings and emotions and ideas
A doctors visit and a photo of my first test
A faint pink line
I’m supposed to be halfway there...
And I’m not
Jul 12, 2019
Jul 12, 2019 at 10:59 AM UTC