There is a shape in my life where a child should be and my body keeps tripping over it. I still count months the way I counted them before everything stopped. There are tiny things I bought that feel louder than furniture. I do not know where to put love when there is no first birthday to aim at. Everyone wanted to reassure me about later and I was only grieving this one life. It is such a specific pain to have no public memory for someone private and permanent inside you. I still count months the way I counted them before everything stopped.
The Wall
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