The Unborn

I walk down hall after hall, up the stairs, or pushing the buttons on an elevator. I open doors and sign my name on a paper in front of a person who will never remember me. I’m called as if I’m a number, not truly a person. They smile and ask me generic questions. They ask us all the same things.

My answers are never given a second thought, the results remain the same. Start with the tests, the pictures that show nothing at all. Talk again and again, just pretend. Imagine for a moment that life is alright and it’ll all turn out fine, but it won’t. So I sit in my room, looking at a wall like it holds the answers for us all, but when I sleep my dreams are full of deceit.

So when I don’t get the call, when the answers don’t fall perfectly into place, my paranoia kicks in and it all begins again. Day after day I wait for the inevitable. What will they say, what can I do? Week after week I tremble with nerves, but nothing can stop the future or stall the present. Fate knows my name, it slips off her tongue like venom and disease. She breaks me but never ends me.

So when I wake up tomorrow, when the pain starts yet you tell me I’ll be alright. When you smile, so positive in such darkness, it kills me a little more inside. When life ends…when your smile fades yet you have to pretend everything will still be ok? For me? For us?

It makes me hate myself, not because it’s my doing but because I believe it’s my fault. My body, the art of a woman I keep messing up. An empty page I can never write in, or a book we will never read. A wound unhealed with time or love, a heartbeat forever unheard…

~End~