(Written about my abortion after rape. Needed to let it out. Don’t read if easily triggered)
January 5th. Bleeding out.
For two nights, I slept on a bed of pinecones
a Princess mashing mutilating a brittle prenatal pea beneath a mattress
with oiled ringlet nooses of my wet hair wrapped around the bitten coral rosepetals of my fingertips digging into the soft underbelly of my shoulderblades
like tiny keratin umbilical cords vomiting silk across the bruised faces of pillowcases,
ten flaxen ropes cast to the frigid sea of my unfeeling pulse reeling in the emotions I could not reach like Tantalus with the aching tentacles of my forfeited maternity
I bowed my head, I prayed
in familiar profanity as if I knew the way God takes the peppermint drifts of His afternoon tea,
I poured out
a poor spore
when I knew I was a mother, I did not know
it would end like this
with pins and needles wedged under the plateaus of my splitting fingernails in cold sweats awakening to ceiling fans twisting like the hands of the Messiah upon the Cross in my undoing
undoing a life as if it were an errant marking on an elementary school chalkboard to be effaced by the careless half moon of my curled hand
the simple unzipping of my womb to purge its contents like the tongue of a swollen winter coat that once concealed the seahorse limbs of my son of a gun my daughter of darkness
I inhaled in baby powder, I listened in lullabies,
I touched like Midas in reverse;
all gold turned to ruin in my palms,
disjointed disharmony rising like cacophonies and pained symphonies in my eardrums the stiffening and rising of rosined violin reeds like a thousand boa constrictors constricting the cramping belt of my waist an aching Equator
I held the pillow until the breathing ceased mother and murderer sound the same when sobbed into the embroidered breasts of washroom towels stitched in butterfly knots like my wrists and lips,
memorizing the diastoles of two heartbeats melting into one like twin candles scorched into collapsing crimson towers solemn skyscrapers draining into Atlantis
pooling out in scarlet red deltas to be evaporated like condensed milk in an aluminum can left on the vertebrae of the kitchen steps,
my sinful, sinewy hands grazing the wasteland of my uterus like garbage disposals shredding spoons burying bodies like mafioso hits beside swimming pools I am sinking in quicksand this massacred masterpiece staining sanitary napkins like botched frescos
strawberry jelly smears of a lost civilization punctuation on refrigerator doors unopened in the dizzying haze of midnights lost to hemorrhages streaking my shoelaces like zebra stripes
cruelest subtraction of a shrimp like skeleton into the gourd like stomach of a half full bathtub,
my womb a gutted nativity scene; no infant rests in this manger
too wicked, too frigid to harbor the kindling wood of a little life a minute soul vomited down drains in bile like a bulimic breakfast no respirator to sustain the deliberate eviction of an infant like an unruly tenant from the apartment of my bones,
spreading the bleached birch branches of my fingertips over the wintry white horizon of my abdomen searching for a pulse drowned in the Pacific membranes dislodging from the walls like agitated anchors,
child of knifepoint of Molotov cocktails and combat boots sighing dripping out the hymns of your organs like ruby marbles into the knotted cat’s cradle of my gashed thighs beneath the tissue paper peel of nightgowns,
an execution I cannot undo.
January 5th. Bleeding out.
And when they told me
I was a mother,
I did not know,
it would end like this.
Even the killing of a child conceived through rape brings a lifetime of guilt.
This guilt originates from our innate understanding of what is right and what is wrong. It is only the modern day rationalization of immoral acts like human abortion that has resulted in its legalization. For proof of this, point to a pregnant mother’s belly and ask any small child if it’s okay to kill the unborn human being living within her.
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