I held a child once, in my womb, a very long time ago and for a time shorter than memory. But when you look at me with accusation in your eyes, and contempt staining your teeth, I remember how it felt, and I can tell you. I can tell you what that feels like, that life the size of a bean counting on you to protect it, to grow it. So don’t look at me and tell me, one woman to another, that I don’t know. And don’t take the memory of this child that was and wasn’t, with its cornflower eyes and spun hair, and tell me I can’t feel love.
I felt love, for a little while.
I also know what it feels like to murder. To bleed. To blacken and die. I am still here. To remember, recall, reminisce. To indulge fantasies of what might have been…
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