The balloon reading ‘it’s a boy’ bobs in the far corner of the hospital room’s vaulted ceiling, no doubt left by the prior tenant. I watch it as the doctor’s words crash together like white noise on an old TV.
High, far and hopelessly out of reach, just like you.
I clutch my empty womb.
We Refuse This Substitute by kiwi-damnation, literature
Literature
We Refuse This Substitute
What feeds you?
Is it the torn pages of blood-smeared diaries
Overflowing with the memoirs of the long gone
Their pain reaching past ink and paper and strangling your senses
While you stagger to gain traction on this revolving rock and its endless depravities?
Or is it the stories of wonder?
The ones where the turmoil careened around them like swarming hummingbirds fighting for nectar,
And while the moments threatened war, danger and devastation
They clutched white-knuckled to their own sense of self
They clung to morality, freedom and the knowledge that
They choose the story that they leave behind - not in pages of a book
But in
I remember
housebound afternoons
when sunshine cascaded
from window to carpet
and fashioned a stage.
My sister and I
would row some days
through pristine waters
or leap across canyons
teeming with lava.
We were children of the light,
and the sun was our muse;
we basked in its warmth
and the ability to see it still
until shadows grew long
and our eyes grew tired
and the curtains drew our fun
to a close.