Infertile

You planted seeds of hope in my stomach

Watered them for nine long months

Against all odds

We created something.

But all the tears we cried,

All the warmth of your body

Pressed to mine,

Could never have made it last.

Maybe I'm made of infertile ground,

Cement blocks tucked under the carefully piled garden you tended to so carefully.

Maybe after all these years you were right, and I really am not meant for you. Maybe I should have walked away sooner.

Yet,

When I see flowers blooming in between sidewalk slabs,

I feel the familiar kick

Of hope inside me.