Cup 25: Running
I sit in the room with dead babies strewn across the floor in drifts like dark snow.
I’m supposed to feel something.
I want to run it doesn’t matter where.
Maybe you want to run with me.
No. You can’t.
I know the difference between alone and lonely.
I know the difference between shame and guilt.
I know the dead babies hate me.
They blame me.
I have a lot of excuses.
The judge doesn’t care.
I am running running running looking like a normal person sitting on the bus.
The babies are already dead, even though they are not yet born.