The Cry of an Unborn Child


The Cry of an Unborn Child

UNBORN CHILD:
It rained last night.
And I know you could have sworn you saw my face in the rain.
And every time it rains nearby I want you to imagine that’s how it would’ve sounded if I cried

MOTHER:
I held my stomach thinking about how this pain is sucking the life out of me,
About how I paid $300 to get you sucked right out of me.
I’m sorry that my womb had to become a tomb bearing yours dreams that will never exist
Believe me when I say I let the tears you would have cried come alive in my eyes.
You do not know how many nights I screamed I’m sorry
to the skies, hoping that you could hear me

UNBORN CHILD
They say blood is thicker than water.
But Blood can never be thicker than my fetus slaughtered
Sucked out of you
Stopping up toilets of hospital restrooms
How could you

MOTHER:
But I wasn't ready.
Heart pumping heavy with mistakes,
I’d rather have aborted you than have grown to become the mother you hate.
Because holding you and holding grudges would have become symmetrical
Vacuuming my inside,  of you.
Worthless like last night vegetables.

UNBORN CHILD:
Just tell me
Are you happy now?
Because for the rest of your life you will be haunted by the illuminating essence of sun light
Because every time you have the ability to see yourself
You will know what I look like
God knows what you’ve done
He wrote you messages in the form of lightning.
Perfectly scripted letters against gray skies,
How many times do I have to cry through the sky for you to realize
Momma we never had the proper goodbye?
Goodbye

MOTHER:
I’m sorry for wrapping my virginity in a blanket and leaving it on God’s doorstep,
Hoping that he would find you because honestly I knew I didn’t deserve to have you.

UNBORN CHILD:
Can you hear the sound of my grandmother humming as she clutches rosary beads close to breast?
Spines erect, infants walk upright up here.
Imitating the life that you never allowed me to have.
Looking down on mothers like you,
Who cradle their swollen bellies pregnant with broken dreams.
Your gums, suckling on old teenage love songs.
Ma, You disgust me
I can tell by the way you hold your purse you’re still a baby.
But since when does that give you the right to abort your only baby?

MOTHER:
I was forced to grow old with fresh milk still crusted above my lips
And I thought, “Maybe if I bob my head a little harder, I could suck his soul from him.”
But swallowing his future never guaranteed that I would be a part of it so I choked, gagged, coughed up generations of broken children and back alleyway babies that were never able to make their way out my womb.
You don’t know how many times I slit my wrist in honor of you

UNBORN CHILD:
I do
I know that you never look in the mirror because you’re afraid to see my face
But how can you continue to breathe knowing that you buried my cradle 6 feet
You cut my umbilical cord because you could never let me swallow what you eat

MOTHER:
My vagina bleeds your tears
Exposing my true fears of your existence
You know the doctor told me you grew fingernails
And every day I feel the scars of the letters you’ve carved
And I hate myself for letting people come so far inside me they can read them

UNBORN CHILD:
It rained last night.
And I know you could have sworn you saw my face in the rain.