That remembered pain returns as huddled over, I clasp my legs,
And loudly beg
from my sudden all-encompassing grief.
As I deliver you, on tissue not towels.
There’s no scream of joy, just the primal howls
Of my soul as I know that you’ve gone,
That our dream of your childhood was just a ill-made con.
My excitement shatters and disappears out of view,
As I look on, temporarily blind at those two lines of blue.
The stars seem less bright tonight, as I gaze at the sky
my two blue lines have faded to grey,
Why you couldn’t hold on for another day
Or 240 more,
Why again I’ll have to pick myself up from the floor
And pretend everything is okay
That tomorrow is another day
To try and brave the rollercoaster again and risk a tumultuous ride,
When all I want to do is disappear or hide.
I clear the debris of anticipated life,
Those reminders that cut through me like the edge of a knife.
Those two blue lines now line the bottom of a black liner,
As like a miner,
I’ll burrow and bury my tears,
For a life I’ve awaited for so many years.
Now I’ll have to pretend you never existed,
Like some twisted
stroke of fate
to convince myself that aunt Flo was just a little late,
Though all those signs: the sickness and aching,
They linger on, though my body’s stopped baking.
I’ll have to keep calm and carry on, hide my suffering in plain sight,
Even when an unwitting person asks me ‘are you feeling alright?’
As I’m British and this is what British do,
Because miscarriage is still a secret, an overdue taboo.
There’s little understanding, little support for women like me,
Who want nothing more to extend their family.
They’ll say I’m lucky already because I already have one,
That it’ll happen again, that I should be grateful I’m a mum.
A death however early should never be glossed
Because a life is a life, no matter when it is was lost.