Losing Life

2.

The pain was unbearable. I went to the doctor. Your period? No. You are losing life ma’am. Well he didn’t say that. But it’s what I heard. You are losing life.

You are losing life. You are losing life, ma’am. What?

She told me that I shouldn’t be sad. He said I should be blessed. This was good news. God was looking out for you. He’s with other women. Why can’t you get over it, sweetie?

But, it’s only been 30 days. Baby—Sorry. Get over it. He’s over it.

Death hurts. Even when convenient.

30 days. 29 days. Maybe it was 28 days. I am not sure. I am not sure how long I carried you in me. I keep trying to believe that you were not real, and that you were just a bundle of cells that decided to form in me. That decided to walk with me as I made transitions in my life. As I learned new facets of myself. I keep trying to avoid pronouns like you and baby. Makes you too real. So I call you “It.” It doesn’t feel right. What is so confusing is that this shouldn’t hurt. I should not be hurting. It was a blessing. I was not ready. We were not ready.

Yet I feel robbed. I feel like you were stolen. And now when I touch my body, I feel empty. Like there is a space you should be in. They say you can’t miss what you don’t have. I don’t believe that. But, I don’t want you.

Isn’t that a paradox? When a death happens in your body, it’s hard to shake.

30 days. 29 days. Maybe it was 28 days. I hope that my body was a home that was worthy. And even though you didn’t stay, I am learning that your leaving is not a reflection of my failure. You have opened me up and left me raw. At first I was confused, and then mad, and now somber. Surprisingly enough, I’m thankful. My body was a home.