Stillborn

Nothing could bring it to life. It had hands, an eye, a belly, a few toes, all the parts necessary for life. The heart never developed quite right. I worked into it with my fingertips, shaping slick chambers and connecting valves. We were making our attempt at being gods. I breathed and sang songs into the little thing, because it held promise. Promise is always something when you have nothing, and all beginnings have nothing. We mourn separately. We can’t compose rainbows of regret. We have no rituals of atonement. Now you see, I cannot stay here and be humiliated by you anymore. I cannot make it live. I will not be loved in pieces for it, but rather I need to be loved as a whole. We can love the failed life in pieces, we can build it a sepulchre. You have come to the wrong place. No one is perfect. I am not sorry.