To my abortion,

To my abortion,

I still love you.
The suffocating stillness,
my breath catches in my chest.
I feel as though I’m some black hole
where good things go to die.
I did my best with what I had.
Each summer punishes me with grief.
The sweltering heat,
the blistering heartache.
The guilt that guts me like a white-bellied fish.
Cold, slippery intestines in a fisherman’s fist.
I am trying to process.
I am trying to move on.
I am trying.
It is hard to be soft
when you are both
a woman and a grave.

-k.