Stillbirth. 04

In a world of Milk And Honey copycats, Henna brings sincerity and brutalism to words that captivate, cajole and cut.

Murder Tramp Birthday

WOUNDED BY THE WATER by NataliaDrepinasource

Every time I knock on the night sky,
another star detaches
and falls to my feet
I’m on my hands and knees,
thin slivers of my dream
leaving me trough my mouth
spit, rinse and repeat
It is hurting now mother,
tragedies unbirthed
make poor stories in the end

A lot like Frida, I fantasized of
grooming my pain,
of strange beings eloping from my body
weaving me a maternity dress of refuse
I grabbed the newborn by its throat
shook it until the neck snapped
then lifted its face to the heavens
and said isn’t this ugly

oh well,

but at least it’s mine
my guilt,
for pushing and believing
and refusing to cut the cord


I’m grasping at the empty hole in my stomach
as something used to fill me up
pervading me with a sense of purpose
but dreams fossilize with time,

like stones,

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