The never-born child haunts me. I feel her ghost above me. It is my infected stigmata. I weaved her destiny, as I have my own. A bed as a starting point, a bed as a cross. Noisy aspirator, the lance. And whose guide to salvation will I be? Who will recite my name with ardent devotion?
The sinister unseen can do more harm, it is less predictable.
Sea foam, the waters recede. They pull back, further still. I cannot reach higher grounds.
I read tarot cards to pass the time, to suppress what rises inside of me. One friend asks questions, then another. They all want to know about love, about their future. And I find that their lives hold nothing, just as my own. I offer them what I can, but they want more. I am used to the demands, and the inability to meet them.
Listen closely, and you can hear a message behind everyone’s breath. We all fear. It is there, in every exhale.