I grew so thin. Gaunt. And while you grew and I shrank, the world was turning so quickly, and I found myself homeless.
I don’t think about you in the day, it’s always at night. The fan at my back, and the cat by my feet. And you, in my head, nothing more than a thought, because that’s all you ever were, really. A thought. A brooding over shadowing thought.
I walked home in ninety degree weather with you inside of me. I was distant, aloof towards what seemed to be an impossible thing. Almost like a dream halfway come to life, a shadow from maybe.
When the doctor said the levels were too low, I wasn’t sad. You weren’t a thing, you weren’t alive. It was like a passing thought. I was relieved. Relieved from fear and worry, the guilt of hiding your existence gone from my shoulders.
It took two weeks, and in that two weeks I learned that carrying death inside you meant that you felt guilty for each breath, guilty for eating, or smiling. I was a failure, a failure at nurturing life. Your heart started beating inside me, and the promise of a future was there –
It wasn’t even labour, it was something else. It was me on the cramped shower floor in my boyfriend’s house, blood swirling down the drain. I cried and felt ashamed. I’d kept you a secret and I was the only one who mourned you.
Now I see toddlers and know that could have been you. I always imagine you as a blond baby boy, full of energy and curiosity.
But you’re just a thought. A dream at night, fading quickly with the morning sunlight.