Putting the explanation at the beginning this time as this one made me cry and might make you cry too. For trigger warnings, check the labels at the end, below the text (I should hopefully have set this up so you can’t see the end of the poem if you click on the link, but you may need to scroll down slightly for the tags).
There’s a hole in her heart,
Or maybe just her torso,
A phantom organ that
Squeezes and kicks,
Dances in frustration in the
Soft places between.
She apologises, sometimes,
Knowing it will never see the light.
She hopes it’ll shrink,
As time and hope slope by;
She knows it can’t be filled with
Other things, and busy-ness,
But maybe they can
Crowd it down,
Wear at its hard edges,
Muffle it somewhat.
It wriggles, digs in sharp fingertips,
It has a trigger for every season –
Presents unbought, traditions unshared,
Snowballs unthrown, slopes unsledded.
There is blossom not to fondle, soft and sweet and small,
Birdsong unidentified, wingflight not pointed.
There are beaches not to run on,
Shells not to clatter in sandy, seaweed pockets.
There are conkers uncollected, fireworks uncooed,
Sharp scents of brown leaf missed, and bonfires unlit.
She knows she could only be
Even more tired, even more broke.
She knows photos and friends and
Values and poems and families-of-choice
Can be legacy, can write her love
Into eternity.
She also knows that knowing
Does not soothe the kick and squirm,
Can’t sing it the lullaby she’ll never write,
Won’t rock it, rocks herself instead,
Sweet and bitter and utterly alone.
Just for a moment. A long, long moment.
While near, small voices pipe and skirl, contented,
Through the first warm sunset of the year.
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Trigger warnings: childlessness and regret
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