Stillborn

My tears bleed pink –

the color of ribbons

tied to the ends of Her braided hair

an unworn cotton dress,

the nursery we can’t walk into –

those rosy walls, a mockery.

Pink: a cold bundle of skin,

where tears run warm,

like a delicate hand

wrapped around my finger:

the heart that stole my heart

then buried it

six feet under the ground.

I placed a part my soul

Inside satin lining,

Where we laid

Our dreams to dirt,

And I watched it

sinking lower and lower,

As the sunset died,

Slowly, agonizing,

In brilliant shades of pink.