Tried to make a poem about my miscarriage… couldn’t do it… did my best…

You Left My Womb (Almost 7 Weeks)

I was gonna hold you like I held my microwavable rice bag on my chest, because I fell asleep with it on me after you left my womb

I was going to dress you up maybe with some bows for a dress, your shoes or a superhero cape, the way I tied up my makeshift drapes opening the window and in your mommy and daddy’s bedroom in our run down house that we rent. Trying to let the light in and to let out the depression and blood smell filled air after you left my womb

I was going to learn the exact pitch of your cry the way I learned the refrigerator’s hum at 3 a.m., standing barefoot on cold linoleum, counting seconds between noises so I wouldn’t feel alone after you left my womb.

I was going to memorize your weight the way I memorized the weight of my phone in my palm, refreshing the calendar, deleting apps, the dates that stopped moving forward the day you left my womb.

I was going to carry you through the house the way I carried laundry from room to room, pausing in doorways, forgetting why I was there, because grief makes even familiar spaces feel unfamiliar after you left my womb.

was going to learn your shape by heart, the way I learned the geography of pain… where it pooled, where it lingered… holding my abdomen as if touch could anchor you, as if warmth could persuade you to stay, as if my body hadn’t already begun grieving the moment you left my womb

I was going to let you rearrange me, teach me a softer gravity and pull my attention toward life instead of endurance, but instead I learned how absence occupies space, how a body remembers what it was preparing to become long after its purpose is taken …when you left my womb

I was going to carry you forward, not knowing how briefly forward would even be and unaware that motherhood could be measured in longing instead of years, that my cells would still recognize you, respond to reminders, ache reflexively, honoring a bond that did not dissolve when you left my womb

I was going to believe survival meant continuation, but you taught me it can also mean remembrance, the quiet discipline of carrying what cannot be held, loving what cannot return, and letting grief testify that something sacred passed through me, altered me, and remained real even after you left my womb