You were the vessel of my love;
my life blood.
That vein of hope was cut,
and I bled my world away.

I was a Goddess, once– and you were my miracle of creation. When I felt life growing within me, I was part of something so much bigger than myself. I was part of the seasons; the tides and the moon, and you were a part of me. Together we were part of the circle of life I had only understood, but never felt until I heard those life-affirming words: “You’re pregnant.”  

To feel my very body wrap itself around your tiny needs; to change and expand as automatically as I breathe, all in the name of sustaining your life. “Delicate condition” is an understatement: we were fragile, but we were completely natural. It was then I knew what it meant to be whole.

I felt a knife burning as it cut me from the inside out, and the inevitable. I live my life now in the reclusive aftermath of your existence.

I failed as a woman, and now I am just a barren wasteland. How could I have protected you from this cold, cruel world when the walls of my own womb choked your future from you? I have soft curves. I wear high heels and perfume, but I wasn’t luscious enough. I wasn’t woman enough. My river of vitality was too shallow; the banks of womanhood not fertile enough to ripen you to maturity. Now the ground is scarred and charred where the soil was torn, and you were harvested too early.

Now I know what a “hole” is. There was the hole torn in my body when you faded away. My hormones had coursed and surged in abundance– then I lost you, and they dried up in their tracks. A chemical hole that ended me. There’s a hole where you used to be– a stark emptiness created in your absence that time has never filled. My body has an urge, and it whispers in the darkness: “Carry a child to fruition.” But the worst hole is the one in my heart. It’s comprised of grief; of failure and disappointment and shame. It was created in the void of where joy, bliss and the hope of impending motherhood once lived. My bare refrigerator is a blank canvas, a monument to your life which never began. An alter of where finger paintings should hang, and these walls a silent testament to innocent giggles that never came.  

You were the vessel of my love,
my life blood.
The vein of purity was cut
and I bled my baby away.