He keeps taking them away. Every time one rushes out, he takes it. I don't see them, never hear them cry, never hold them. Sometimes I go out into the barn; I swear I can feel them there. I don't know where he puts them but I know they are in there. He keeps saying they aren't no good, they're sick, they come out ruined. Purple, he says as he pulls one out. My body cries tears of milk but he just keeps taking them. When that man lays inside of me, he says it's love but that kind of hurt don't feel like love. Love is what makes them, he says, so love me. That isn't love. Robbing someone isn't love. Months go by and those familiar waves of pain crash into me again. And there's another one, a small purple thing, and dammit it doesn't cry. But I do. Sometimes it feels as if my whole body is weeping... Well he went and did it again, this time in the bathroom. I clawed and cried out and he said, you little rat, you stop that. Love me. And I suddenly felt like all of them, all of the ruined babies, crushed and purple, shivering against the white tiles.
submitted at 2:24am
29 March 2011