They say it scars you for life!
They say it consumes your soul!
They say you never get over it!
They say a lot of things …
Am I so
different?
Or maybe?
I’m
just
Indifferent!
Who knows?
I don’t know
I really don’t know
I often peek inside the rusty old bucket of dead babies that I keep in the loft
And?
I feel nothing
Not a damn thing
Feeble
Formed
Foetuses
Swirling around and around and around
and around and around
and around
Why is it that I have no pain?
Why do I not crave my dead babies?
I couldn’t even tell you when they fell out
When they made a run for it
When they thought “Fuck this …. I’m out of this bitch”
Does that make me a bad person?
Would it be more acceptable if I was distraught and inconsolable?
Then you could all pat me on the back and collect my tears
Well ….
Heres the news …
“There’s NO fucking tears here, baby!”
So you all can take your sanctimonious bullshit and shove it straight up your sympathetic compassionate arses
In fact I’ll even lay a wager that if this was
YOU
YOU
would run through
Imaginary birthdays
Imaginary names
Conceptions
Etc
"Sshhhh ….. Don’t mention babies in front of her"
She is so fragile
Full of so much love
A tiny delicate little flower
Full of so much love
MILK IT BITCH
COS TONIGHT I’LL BE HOWLING AT THE MOON SURROUNDED BY DANCING DEAD BABIES
