Letters.

to my unborn child,

I think about you sometimes, you know. mostly at night. mostly when there’s no one else around. mostly when I feel the kind of loneliness that isn’t cured by having people around you, or by having people very close to you, or by having people stroke your greasy hair and call you baby. I giggle to myself, because they don’t know that I happen to be thinking about a baby that already exists in the form of a gamete somewhere within my gut mucus. they don’t know what’s funny. hehe.

That’s mostly when I think of you.

your unmade mother.
_____________________________________________________________________________________

to my unborn child,

you may think I didn’t try. I did. I ate carrots for you. I fucking hate carrots. I ate carrots and took vitamins and stopped buying from Red, even though I wanted to and I knew he’d get back at me for it. I hate eating carrots. I hate buying vitamins. Red’s going to be pissed.

I tried, but it wasn’t good enough.

your unmade mother.
_____________________________________________________________________________________

to my unborn child,

it’s a good thing you’re unborn. I’m terribly lonely sometimes, but you wouldn’t like it here. I don’t like it here at all. Sometimes I drink a lot, even though I hate the taste of alcohol and I hate being drunk. Sometimes I don’t drink at all and I pretend you’re on your way and it gives me a reason not to put on a dress and boots and instead look up interesting facts about you and try to pick out your name. I know that if that were true my breasts would be tender, and my areolas would be dark. One of my boobs hurts because I got slammed against the pole on the subway. It’s darker, but that’s just a bruise.

I have so many names for you.

your unmade mother.
_____________________________________________________________________________________

to my unborn child,

I think about the day you left a lot. they told me I should be relieved this big mess just took care of itself. I wasn’t relieved. not at all. I was devastated.

I still am, I think.

your unmade mother.
_____________________________________________________________________________________

to my unborn child,

I really love my mom. I think you’d really love me, but probably for very different reasons. she’s a perfect mom, and I’m the kind of person who’s never supposed to be a mom. you can tell by my “blatant disregard for issues concerning my overall wellness.” my body’s a fucking dump, you don’t want to live here. maybe you will again someday, but probably not for long.

I miss you

your unmade mother.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

to my unborn child,

my favorite color is plum. not purple, but plum. it’s a beautiful color. it’s the color of sensual lips of perfect sunsets and of jazz. it’s a terribly sad color too, you know. it’s the color of bruises, and blood clots and miscarriages.

Plum looks beautiful on my skin. I’m sure it would look beautiful on yours too.

your unmade mother.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

to my unborn child,

I hope someone sends you flowers someday. I’ve been sent flowers many times. sometimes, when it actually means something and you know it does, it’s a really wonderful experience. I have a really hard time throwing flowers away, so I press them in books or hang them from my corkboards, but I hardly ever remember they’re there. my bookcases all smell like desiccated petals. I think it’s a sad smell, but don’t hold me to it. you might not think it sad at all

I hope you get to smell dried flowers. I’m starting to think you might someday

your unmade mother.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

to my unborn child,

I’ve reconsidered a lot of things lately. things seem different, you know. very different. not necessarily right, but maybe like someday they’ll be right. I hope so. I think we’d be great together. this is a good day. for both of us, I think.

it’ll be terribly nice to meet you in person someday.

your unmade mother.
_____________________________________________________________________________________

to my unborn child,

I bought you a stuffed giraffe, even though I’m not sure if you’ll get to see it or not. maybe someday, in a very long time. it’s charming. it has two small horns and a silly looking face. it’s incredibly fictional. I thought I’d tell you that though we may think giraffes all look pretty similar, they all have different spots, though giraffes from the same areas have similar spots, which makes me think of problems we have here. people from the same areas have the same spots too. You don’t know anything about that kind of stuff, which is really wonderful. I hope you never do, but I don’t know how to keep all the bad things from you.

If you were a giraffe, I’m sure your spots would be so beautiful.

your unmade mother.
_____________________________________________________________________________________

to my unborn child

it’s been a while, and things are going well. I hope you don’t feel neglected, as you certainly have been on my mind lately. I haven’t had time to write you, as things are different. I could tell you all of the things, but I think eventually you’ll see them. until then, I hope all is well for you too.

goodbye for now

your unmade mother.