Aborted Thoughts

She finds a sort of temporary comfort in these words she constructs,
But
As she constructs such lines she feels as though she’s been cut.
Wrists slit while clenched fists bleed to death and die.
Aborted.
Aborted like her failed attempts of freedom.
Aborted like her faded dreams forgotten.
She should have aborted the thought of an offspring,
Thus bringing him the gift of nothing.
Aborting nothing.
A child denied of life.
Aborting thoughts of fear
Fighting back these tears
Igniting all that’s here
Thus her mind remaining clear.
As clear as this paper was before I put the pen there.
This pen tears
Holes in her eyes so she may leek tears,
So she may cry for her aborted child.
In the meanwhile she suffers from a syndrome that makes her regret her life.
In this instance it makes her regret her very existence.
The “would-be-mother” speaks in words of insistence
Whose very syllables are separated by vast distance.
While she idly caresses her empty belly,
Her hand forced back by a memory that forced resistance.
“What is the difference,” she asks with interest,
“Between my rage, my shame, my retorted speech and my aborted infant?”