I was reminded today of a poem I wrote in the throes of devastation from my last loss. It's heavy and sad but I wanted to share, in case you're feeling alone in your grief. I've been there. There are no words to describe the pain. And though it may not shrink or disappear, you will grow around it. I promise you will, mama (or papa).

My middle of the night grieving words:

Gutted.

Vascillating between

hopeless and worn, swollen eyes fixated on nothing in particular, blank stare hiding my racing mind

And

loud, shaking, sobbing, violently screaming into the void, desperately searching for answers that will never come.

There are No Answers.

No right words to say to us.

Closure and peace and sleep evade us.

Logic and reasoning betray us.

Hearts racing, palms sweating,

No Answers. How could there be?

Babies. Shouldn't. Die.

Why?

Why did this happen, why to me?

Guttural sobs escape from a place so deep within my soul, I couldn't have known it existed before the worst day.

If you've walked this path, you know the sound.

If you haven't, I pray your heart is forever spared from those deep, wounded, begging, pleading, anguished,

Guttural sobs.

They would haunt you.

They will haunt me forever.

The desperate cry of a mother whose child has been torn from her belly, a child who died in the folds of a body whose only job was to

Keep. Her. Alive.

I couldn't.

I'll never know why.

I'm in the folds now.

Trying to keep my own heart beating, if only to prove to myself that I'm capable.

Easier said than done

When you are not whole.

Longing, aching.

Chest pounding so loudly you're certain the whole room can hear it.

And though each pulse brings you closer to breaking, you swallow the fury in your throat and collapse at the intersection of faithful and forlorn, where unfamiliar words tumble from your lips as you beg:

Please, God. Take it back. This can't be real. This can't be happening.

It is.

Lifeless belly, still round from memory.

Empty womb.

Gutted.