She is crawling in my womb,
clawing for the exit. She
chokes on the pill
I swallow daily to lock her in.
Tiny toes scrape at my walls,
kick the breath out of me.
Stubborn, like me, she is always
screaming Let me out! Let me out!

Her name lumps in my throat,
slices the tip of my tongue.
Harriet, I whisper.
You’ll kill us both.
I bleed her out monthly,
to protect her.

Her tears sting on my cheeks,
leave stains on my sheets,
Grief for what I’ve never held
folds me over. My husband keeps
her name like a secret and I realize
I’ve never written her name before.
Now she is in ink, drying,
trying to exist.