The Birth

I threw it away behind the bushes

my baby, with its bashed in face

and half a brain-spewing skull.

I hid it so they wouldn’t know

that it was still alive

and breathing out sordid notes

of death and dread.

An ill omen,

it had been born with

a black eye that wouldn’t shut,

twisted limbs, and lolling tongue.

 

I had birthed my fears,

rolled up in one. So I 

did what I had been doing

for ages, once I was

too old to hide under beds,

behind curtains.

I threw them away.

Behind the bush,

away from eyes,

to rot.

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13 Replies to “The Birth”

  1. You’ve gotta stop making me cry.Got it? Loved the essence of it though.No matter how far we go into escapism we always remember what we escaped from ,hide from or throw away.We never really forget ,do we?

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