When your body betrays you: this is what i think my miscarriages sound like (warning delicate content) by latoya shauntay snell
My body has been the burial ground of underdeveloped fetuses
who knew this world was too broken
to enter a place full term.
I find my mind drifting to the undesirable parts of town
Like abortion clinics
Nursing children who will never see the light of day
Because of circumstances beyond
Their mothers' control.
My PTSD comes in the form
Of menstrual cycles
Reminding me every 28 days of my failures
And when she slips up a few days late
I'm granted false hopes
As she snickers in dark corners
Lurking on me worshipping a pregnancy test,
Plotting on two lines
That's straighter than my sexuality.
I wept for the past 240 days
For babies I'll never swaddle in a blanket
Underwent postpartum depression
For a grave I'll never visit
And a tombstone rests where my ovaries sleep.
Forgiving myself has been a chore
Posted on a refrigerator as a sticky note
Where I remind myself to brush my teeth,
Shower for the sake of others
And place my trash onto the curb.
It may take nine months to bring in life,
Seconds to lose someone sacred
But it takes a lifetime to heal.