Is that why?

 

I bled

for so many years with the pain reminiscent of childbirth

and cried with longing and loss

the empty hollow and the useless womb

Is that why

 

I ached

and found each day weighed heavier than the last

and my body dried and drained

and my world shrank to a parody

Is that why

 

I killed

Tiny webbed fingers a heart, hair and brain part-formed

potential possibilities promise

unfulfilled unloved unlived

Is that why

 

I wept

as the years and tears and fears

papered pathetic layers over your body

ripped from mine by choice

Is that why

 

I survived

with scars and empty spaces in my heart and head

and lost my vision and hope and faith

in myself and in love

Is that why?

 

This is not my work, but the writer (who has another half a dozen little gems up her sleeve), was unsure of its merit. I was not!