Dear B.

Every single word you wrote I would fold it gently under my skirt and bury it near the mulberry tree outside my house.

I keep telling myself this should be the last one. Continuing this correspondence is driving me insane but I can’t do without it. Writing to you keeps me alive in this morbid city.

This month I had my 4^th miscarriage. The pain was immense. I gently let it slip between my legs down on the bathroom floor. A mix of blood and mucus lying there for hours while I sat near the toilet bowl thinking what I did wrong. Maybe it was all my feelings for you that couldn’t hold an unborn fetus.

Maybe it was the food or the coffee cup curse.

My womb is full of false impulses and bare illusions.

I touch gently the obsession still dripping down through the backs of my knees. I clean the remains with the back of my hand.

The stain stays eternally embedded in the folds of my belly. And I am granted with a durable pain.

He will never know since he will never understand. And I want to see him happy,

I know you don’t care

But I am in pain.


L.