This (courtesy another After abortion link) is the utter soulless void where surprising numbers can be found today.
I read the poem. It's a good, good poem, like the Exorcist is a good, good horror flick.
That a woman would see her child as a cancer, a tumor... and death as a mother...
I feel a scream rising in my lumpy throat.
Death is a thief, a criminal, a whore, a devil, but never a mother.
Never a mother.
Why didn't she get the HG? Why don't those who call their sweethearts "cancer" (or "nothing") get the infertility or devastating pregnancy illness?
It's not right to point fingers or to beg answerless questions, but this is my moment, and I do.
IT'S NOT FAIR!
One woman moans from the gut at another negative pregnancy test, another miscarriage, the hundredth emetic episode in less than two weeks, a birthmother who has changed her mind.
One woman leaves her child in an airport toilet, in a trash compactor, in a camp ground porta potty, in a stranger's shed, in a plastic bag, in an ant-infested ditch, in a bell jar...
One woman's trash is another woman's treasure.
And I will never understand God's justice.
:: ashli 10:36 AM # ::
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