My body is a tomb yard.

I have not lost one, but two now.

And my heart is so heavy,

It makes me wonder how I don't sink.

Concieved out of cluminess,

Concieved out of love, 

Concieved out of what my dreams were made of.

What my dreams were concieved out,

Fabricated the idea that I could somehow be a mother.

That I could open my body to somehow not be a warzone.

Not be a warzone long enough to hold something so precious inside.

The idea that I could nurture anything,

That I could find beauty in change,

In growth,

In anything that isn't distructive. 

When my body threw out my dreams, 

The nurse put her hand on my shoulder and said,

"It happens to the best of us."

My body is a tomb yard.

I wish I could believe that I was "the best of us".