My ovaries laugh when he says kind things, yet they won’t get the chance to see you come into the world. You will be born of other parents, and I will remain barren and alone, or is it just the hormones telling me lies?
I have struggled with the choices I made for a few good reasons.
I struggle without my imaginary daughter; then I wonder if she came into the world, it would never be as I imagined.
There’s too much horror for broken people like me, so we:
laugh hard, and
for so many long-winded reasons.
I see the socially acceptable normal ones, the ones who have it all. I see them, and then I look deeper. Cracks lay across the picture. Black ink seems to smear parts of the image. Underneath, there are pieces of them hurting, hating, hiding, hitting, kicking and screaming, dying, crying and lying.
I see no normal ones. Instead, I see many filters blocking out reality. I see myself in the mirror, and I know that life is about fate and destiny, yet life is also about strength and courage. Life is about love, but not this anger that’s consumed me for too long.
Sitting and feeling sadness boil into anger and resentment, I write it all out. Perhaps I will never have my daughter is a given now, yet perhaps so many others will not too.
The humidity covers the many layers of you with dew, for you thrive like a succulent in the wet. I expand and contract by the rise and fall of the seasons. During the humidity, I expand; in cold weather, I contract. You thrive, and I contract today; It’s your heaven and my hell. Then, as if the sky knows who I am, the clouds break, and the cool rain falls onto our skin.