I am a horrible mommy. I am a coward. I am weak. I gave up on him unknowingly. I let myself be lied to. I believed the lies. I didn't persecute the guilty. I couldn't handle making sure those responsible remembered and were responsible for their injustice. I did not look at myself from the inside out so that I could be there with him as he died. My husband chose to be with me, his coward wife, when he wanted to be with his son when he passed. I begged to see him after I birthed him but was too quick to see him beyond the machines. I worshipped every moment with him to the fault that I was afraid to lose him. I let him rest when they told me he had to be calmed down after our visits. I should've strengthened his heart with my presence. I let him down when I thought he was waiting for us to let him go. I live on wondering if the reason why my husband won't talk about it anymore is because I was too chicken shit to be there when our son died that he felt an obligation to be with me. I am guilty of not spending every moment I could with him. I carry on a legacy of a little man I don't even know. I carried him my womb and treasured every moment he was in my arms. Part of me knew. That should've made me want to be there more. I am a horrible mommy. I am a coward. I am weak.
"Grief is not a sign of weakness, nor a lack of faith..it is the price of love"
Friday, January 15, 2016
Tuesday, January 5, 2016
It Bleeds
My grief bleeds in an unsteady flow depending on the grip of the tourniquet holding the flow and how large the emotional injury is.
There are those that probably think I pick the scar to make it bleed but the truth is it itches daily and only through itching am I able to cope.
My heart bleeds into my veins and arteries to feed my every cell so that the muscles in my legs can take one foot in front of the other through the marshes of my journey.
My bruises internally bleed due to the compression my supposedly thick skin provides until only deep soul penetration allows the pressure to be released.
Tears that I bleed flow for all of what is lost and the pride I have for him yet there is no tissue is strong enough to hold the oceans of brine they contain.
My thoughts bleed from a persistently perplexed brain that struggles to understand why something like this could happen, much less to me.
There are daydreams and nightmares that bleed from my soul of what could've been, who he would be and his everlasting freedom in Heaven.
My conscientiousness bleeds of worry about what he thinks of how my life is turning out but encourages me to speak to him through the atmosphere.
Living bleeds the heavy load and guilt even when the weight gets lighter and others attempt to assuage my regrets.
Sorrow bleeds for other grieving parents whether the wound is momentarily healed or freshly opened because a trauma of this magnitude is unnecessary and a careless act of Nature.
Songs bleed from my mouth and release feelings that swell with love for my Angel Baby one moment the absolute sorrow the next.
The words that I bleed often aren't consistent, often seemingly clotting to form a scab that bursts open at the moment of closure.
My love for my son continuously bleeds and I let it flow freely paying no mind to the disapproval of others.
There are those that probably think I pick the scar to make it bleed but the truth is it itches daily and only through itching am I able to cope.
My heart bleeds into my veins and arteries to feed my every cell so that the muscles in my legs can take one foot in front of the other through the marshes of my journey.
My bruises internally bleed due to the compression my supposedly thick skin provides until only deep soul penetration allows the pressure to be released.
Tears that I bleed flow for all of what is lost and the pride I have for him yet there is no tissue is strong enough to hold the oceans of brine they contain.
My thoughts bleed from a persistently perplexed brain that struggles to understand why something like this could happen, much less to me.
There are daydreams and nightmares that bleed from my soul of what could've been, who he would be and his everlasting freedom in Heaven.
My conscientiousness bleeds of worry about what he thinks of how my life is turning out but encourages me to speak to him through the atmosphere.
Living bleeds the heavy load and guilt even when the weight gets lighter and others attempt to assuage my regrets.
Sorrow bleeds for other grieving parents whether the wound is momentarily healed or freshly opened because a trauma of this magnitude is unnecessary and a careless act of Nature.
Songs bleed from my mouth and release feelings that swell with love for my Angel Baby one moment the absolute sorrow the next.
The words that I bleed often aren't consistent, often seemingly clotting to form a scab that bursts open at the moment of closure.
My love for my son continuously bleeds and I let it flow freely paying no mind to the disapproval of others.
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