A Childless Mother

I sit here, in the scorching hot bathtub.
I have a bottle in hand & a cigarette in the other.
I had given them up months ago, so you could have a healthy environment to grow in.
And you did, for a while anyway.
But you are gone now.
Tears & sweat mix as they run down my face.
I try to tell myself that your soul was just to wild for this world – it doesn’t help.
I was ok with how my body was changing, growing, adapting – all for you.
I peer down at myself & see the stretch marks that have appeared, the extra fat on my stomach that is now floppy – how can I be proud of this?
I sink lower into the hot water, immersing my tender, swollen breasts.
I went through the pain of birthing you, but you’re not here.
& now my body is producing milk that you will never taste.
I slowly, painfully, try to relieve some pressure.
It’s like a second set of tears, my body is missing you.
I am mourning the life lost, & the life that never will be.
I have all the symptoms of a mother, yet no children.

– Your favorite Gemini

Your favorite Gemini

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