Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Hester Prynne Me.

there were blood clots
and showers
that lasted over
two hours
just because the bleeding
wouldn’t stop
the feeling of
giving birth
to a single
finger
possibly
a spine
and the tears
those secret beings
the only proof
left.

afterwards
the question
of whether or not
you deserved to know
…your phone calls
stones tossed at my window
your whistling
text messages reading
“are you available tonight”

And the suffocating need
to explain the holocaust
the tiny voices crying
the caving of my organs
a need to swallow you whole
to stuff
the cracks
that allowed life
to escape me
the guilt
worn like a scarlet letter
everything in me so disfigured
I was afraid someone would see it.

tell me do you know what its like
to have to mop the blood
from your miscarriage
4 a.m.
biting down on your bottom lip
so hard to rip into the tissue
but you cannot sob
you don’t want to frighten
your mother
your sister
and besides how to explain
a pregnancy from a man
who wont even admit
our relationship.
tell me, how to do I stuff that into a text message?

so I let you in
wept silently
as you undressed me
swallowing the nausea
as we kissed
the disgust as you entered
the horrible pain of every thrust
your wicked smile
blank eyes
hollow words
I clung to you
nails buried into the front of your shirt
needing to yell

there were blood clots
as big as my thumb
there were puddles
of you
gushing out of me

you moaned
and rolled over
stared at the ceiling
I didn’t say a word.
you stood up
pulled your pants back on
routine.

the next morning
there were bloodstains
of my sheets
the last remains
of our child. I think.

this time, I didn’t cry.
the silence
had claimed me whole.

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