“Numbness” is the first chapter of the book I bought to help me understand the situation. Feels a lot less like help, a lot more like information. I keep it hidden on the side of my bed so no one can see the cover. “Shame” is chapter four, and unhelpful like the others. The next chapter tells me that healing comes with time. I throw the book aside; could’ve looked this shit up online. It’s not even like the author really cares what happened. Just 16 dollars in their pocket to try to justify my actions. They don’t know me. They don’t know my soul or where it will go, nobody knows. But they all talk like they know. They all preach like they know. It’s like everyone has an answer these days but me. An answer for my life that I myself can’t seem to reach. My stomach hurts still. From cramps or emotions, I can’t tell. Maybe it’s guilt that I get to go to heaven, or maybe it’s a fear of hell. I think of my soul, while I’ve condemned another. I made the choice to be a murderer instead of a mother. I made a choice. A selfish choice. Because I had a choice. But my baby didn’t get a choice. Or a breath. Or a smile. Or a voice.