I yearn for the placenta with its growth of more than half a century, since a decade old I pray for. Some of its traces left behind appears in my hopeless eyes for a small cuddly bear in the middle of a store next to soft toys. I touch its fur hoping it grows its tiny nubs of fingers inside my womb, hoping for an immaculate birth. The stolen glances at mothers breastfeeding, at fathers kissing daddy's girl. The eugenics of the rapists's dream becomes reality.
I take everything lightly, ignoring the cute smiles from their bald heads and chubby cheeks. I pretend I have someone waiting for me at home just as the happy families I pass by and say hello to. But, with each smile, I take them as angels in all vulnerability. They are all friends to me, under 21 and over 0, they each represent my dream.
I sense a wonder when I touch a tiny human being, as a soft tender mercy inside my soul. Honest and forgiving, but stern in their belief for goodness in humanity. I give each one my hopes and blessings, that perhaps their walk will be kind. I don't ask for their stories because they gladly show it to me. The drueling hunger for a playmate or a caterwaul of demands. I love them all, each one gives me a high-five.
They are drawn to me and I am drawn to them. I care for their day and pray for their nights for a year, although I grew weary and place the neck pillows under my shirt. It comes out of deep longing for love, something I feel I lost. I suppose fortune tellers can't diagnose my future about this, because it is final. The loss of my dream is now my grief.