i ripped my love out by the roots.

i wrapped my sonogram in the envelope
my secret admirer letter came in and hid it
under the christmas tree where no one
would look. last night i lay on my back
and held it up to the lights, measuring
the fetus against colored glass bulbs,
and it glowed blue&green&red,
up to the edges.

i double-tongue every breath now
as if i can catch the ones i’ve lost and watch
staccato frost float away like music notes.
i pull pages out of christmas programs, fold
the first noel and adeste fideles into origami cranes
and blow them off my hands like kisses,
let them sink in the snow and bury them.

i hum what child is this as i unscrew christmas lights.
they flicker out and blink like morse code, echoes
of names i can’t say, names i’m forgetting, names
that aren’t real. i break the bulbs one by one and
they crack into my skin, cut into every fingertip,
and i cannot touch without lighting up
in pain, thousands of pieces of glass glittering
under my skin. i wash drops of blood and bulbs down the sink.

i’m afraid of summer coming, afraid
of exposing my skin again.
i don’t like seeing myself naked in the mirror.
i don’t like seeing myself at all. every time
i see corners of your heart buried in me, pieces
of myself i cut away. when i arrived at the clinic,
they said you already had a heartbeat,
and i feel it in mine every day,
warm like christmas lights in my palm.