The cylindrical wad pounds through to the pulsating walls;
a mechanism to soak up inadequacy, hopes, and dreams.
For a moment it masks the fact-
I am vacant.

The body flamed with desire, but was extinguished with the rains of loss.
Comments dictating praises be hailed were darts of ice to the yearning heart.
Those women with babes at their breasts encouraged more faith,
but isn’t honesty with the pain faith enough?

The twisted cotton nailed the coffin of this womb,
sealing reality that the promised babe hadn’t come.

The lining shed unveils a truth-
trusting God rests in blood
despite humanity’s control or anxieties.

I know his promises,
his steadfast love.
Though I refuse to be deceptive in appearance.
The grass is greener here,
but not with showers of joy.
I’m watering my soil with envy.
I must halt lest the ground grow slick.
If not, I’ll fall into that crater of sin.
Yet a part of me knows that it takes time.
Slowly I’ll reel in the cast out anger,
but it’s a process towards restoration.
Trust is learned while wading in murky waters,
not typically with an instantaneous sip of his crystal waters.

This is my sorrow, this is my healing
all in time—mine and his.
Dying to self and the aspiration of motherhood,


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