You rest in my achy, uncertain womb. Even Hedone says this can’t continue, and Dionysus has cut me off. The doctor says I just need to take the medicine, simply drink more water, and I’ll be okay. I don’t believe her. I can’t believe her. I refuse to believe her.
Baby, baby, baby.
Not you. Not me. Not tonight.
I cannot carry your daughter to term. I cannot raise your daughter alone. You gave me a child conceived in fear, shame, and crime.
The love I have for our daughter pools in the footpaths of the garden of my heart. Perhaps if this body–Perhaps if my body (for it really is mine and it always has been, no matter how many crimes have been committed here, no matter how many people have died between my breasts, no matter how many drug deals have gone down in the back of my vomit-slick throat.) Perhaps if my body can be home to birth and beauty and innocence and purity, I am not as rotten as you would like to make me feel.
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