I just finished a blog post about this poem, which I wrote a few years ago. Even though writing the poem released a lot of emotions, writing about it again felt too personal to post. I guess I’ll just post the poem and keep the rest tucked away in my journal.
The Other Baby (2009)
You were never real to me until
I felt your life rush from me, my hands trying to catch you,
as if I could staunch the red river that washed you away.
You were never more real to me,
seeing you silent on the screen with
no visible heartbeat to verify your viability.
Uncontrollable sobs gave way to anger, exploding from my soul,
erecting a force field of white-hot rage, searing anyone who came near.
The loss of you was never more real than when
they scraped the last remains of you from me,
returning me to my original empty state.
Through the blissful haze of unconsciousness,
their voices coaxed me awake, announcing
it was over, and that I would be just fine.
They couldn’t have been more wrong.
Reading this again, I can’t help but notice how cold and empty it feels, much like myself at the time. Most parts are detached, which I had become until the rage snuck up on me. It was a long time ago and I have come to terms with it and everything that was happening in my life at the time. I’m just fine.
© Liza Bennett
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