Letter Number Two

I have a whole sheaf of these now, is that strange? I don’t know why I just asked that, how could it not be strange that I am writing letters to my unborn child? It doesn’t feel strange. It feels perfect. You’re the only person I can talk to about you, other people are sick of hearing it. I don’t blame them because I would be to, I just can’t help it. Not that I will ever in a million years let you read these, I don’t want you to see me like this; a wreck of a woman who lives most her life in  her head. When I have you I want to be your rock, I don’t ever want you to see me being weak or indecisive. I want you to know that it’s ok for women to have opinions and to go and get what they want, be it a family or a career or both. Not that I want you to think I am emotionless, but that’s all part of being strong as well isn’t it? The ability to show your emotions without feeling ashamed, as long as they aren’t hurting somebody.

I have to say though, I haven’t been showing my emotions too well lately. We, him and I, have been arguing a lot recently. He’s always asking me what’s wrong because I seem uptight to him, which isn’t necessarily true. I’m not uptight, I’m just not…here. I don’t give him proper answers because I’m being vague, not because I’m snapping at him. I seem to have retreated even more into my head with you in the last few weeks and it makes it hard for me to concentrate on the things around me. It’s not like I can explain that to him though, so every time he asks me what’s wrong I say nothing when really what I mean is, nothing new. I can’t work out if he knows that and just wants me to say it though. If he needs to hear me beg again or if he truly thinks I have forgotten because I can’t  ask him again. Thinking about saying it out loud makes my throat feel raw, as though the words are tears and they’re filling my mouth. Just the thought of having to explain again how empty I feel stokes the fires behind my eyes again, making them smart and tingle and I can’t start it all again because in the middle of the night when I’m still awake, aching for you, I need someone to hang on to. How funny that the very rock standing in between me and you is the one that I cling to so the tide of my grief doesn’t sweep me away.

It seems to be that time of year again, I don’t know if that’s why I’ve been wanting you more recently. Everywhere I turn, women are finding out that they’re pregnant. It must be the season - that feeling you get when spring finally arrives, bringing air that smells different and feels fresh in your lungs. There seems to be hope in the world when spring comes, don’t you think? The world is shaking off her winter skirts and picking out skirts in pale yellows and deep greens, wrapping her hair in shawls of baby blue and cotton white. No wonder everybody is so damned fertile.

Yet here I am.

Carrying my womb full of decaying leaves and sludge, still filled to the brim with winter.

The End

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