Four years ago I had a miscarriage. Actually, I didn’t miscarry, per se. The baby died at 12 weeks but I didn’t know it until four weeks later, and only then because the ultrasound discovered it to be true. My uterus had continued to grow, inexplicably. All the symptoms were still there. But baby? Dead. All that time. She just didn’t want to let go
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As for getting all weird if things go wrong. I couldn't possibly be more tactless and wierd than last time.
So happy you wrote about it.
Sorry it sucks ass.
I am still jealous as all hell though.
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Here is said poem. Probably too personal to post, yeah, but you're talking to someone who has an online journal. So...
Tess (08/99-12/99)
While you were here
old wounds were patched
and light was found
in rootless dark.
Our cord reached out
beyond this bond to gather
tangled knots of sorrow -
unraveled them
with happy circumstance
and tied a bow.
But you withdrew,
your tiny veins without a pulse,
and left me blank --
replaced the bow with
brand new knots to smooth,
fresh wounds to mend,
and darkness,
thick, unsteady.
How much longer
would you have clung,
curled and lifeless,
pale shadow
of my certain expectation?
And if I begged,
undid all knots,
would you return?
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Ahem. I'll read more...
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