To My Son or Daughter

It has been one year since I killed you: drowned your future cries under the calm blue sea of a knife. I am, as ever, sorry for what I have done. Sorry I could not be a mother to you. Sorry that you died alone in that room, lulled to your final sleep by the beeping of machines while I stared at a poster of sunflowers thoughtfully tacked to the ceiling above me. I held my own hand that morning, saying goodbye to you. My baby. My littlest love.

It has been one year since I killed you: watched you fade away in the bloody water of a shower. I hope you judge me less harshly than I judge myself. I hope you understand that I wanted only to hold you in my useless arms. By the time I let you go, you had arms, elbows, and hands. You could have held me back. My child. My darling.

It has been one year since I killed you: felt you leave me, taking the nausea and exhaustion with you as souvenirs of your time on earth. I'll never understand why you chose me. You were punished for your choice: cut away from your mother's flesh like unwanted tissue. A cancer. My angel. My angel.

I'm sorry.