As I sit here about to take Day 3 of my new birth control pill, I am taunted by the irony that requires me to take them when I never could get pregnant. It reminded me of a poem I wrote last year.
Flash Of Red
I am ready to let go
To give up on the dream
Of holding our newborn son or daughter
I no longer imagine her face
Would his son have his eyes and my hair?
I don’t dream of these things…
Anymore
I want to move on
To different, if not better, dreams
But memories rush in
Painful splashes of red
And tell me I’m not really a woman,
Just a facsimile of one
My hell is this excruciating reminder
Of my failure to give him both of us
My soul as torn to shreds as my insides,
I’m barren like the trees of winter
My mind as twisted as their stark, black limbs
My heart repeatedly crushed,
Just as it beats again
The healing process endless
The pain a relentless rush of red
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