Today the alarmed was screaming at me to get up. I didn't want to leave the sanctuary of my blanket, my fantasies, or my thoughts that yesterday did not happen. No one could blame me. Not even knowing the previous day's events, the sound of the angry winds buffeting the trees and apartment building, were enough to let anyone know today would not be hospitable.
But I got up - my entire body aching with the sadness I didn't want to show. I prayed selfish prayers in the shower. Prayers for money, for escape, for anything but now and here. I was fine until I looked in the mirror. Until I had to face the reality that everything was real as it was. That my baby was not to be. That my body would start it's monthly process once again. That everything would once again be "normal."
I hate the day after. I will probably hate every day until my body has been emptied of what once felt like so much promise and now is just contained death. I don't care if it's normal or that it happens all the time or that there's a statistic that shows it's common "for my age." That doesn't make the pain go away. That doesn't stop the tears. That doesn't make me hate life any less. It doesn't stop it being the day after.
