Shame is literally kissing my lips as I confess this, but I fear I’ll just die if I don’t confess. Going to a priest won’t do, shouting to the whole world my atrocity would. Shutting my eyes in sleep is now a mystery.
After you read, I need you to call me a heartless bitch, flog me with the whip of your tongue, maybe then, I’ll be made clean. I can’t take it anymore! I shouldn’t have done it, I shouldn’t have.
I still remember the sleepless nights I had, soaking my pillow with tears. I had a hard time making the decision. The humane part of me really fought against it, but in the end, the inhumane part won. I had decided. There was no going back.
He must have heard my fights and arguments with his dad. How he must have begged to let him breathe and grow. How he must have struggled through those pills and pricks.
Flushing him wasn’t easy. He did fight back. He kicked at every bone in my body, wanting to take my life with his.
It dawned on me that I had made a grave mistake when the clouds began a violent downpour, in a stark dry season – a sign I had rid the world of a promising child, or maybe I had thrown away my chance of being the mother of a revolutionist.
Ever since, an unending pain had etched into my heart, a pain greater than the loss. There was so much blood. I bled indoors for weeks.
The day he fell through my opening, I had held my breath, thinking I would die. I felt a strong contraction in my vagina, the same you have when you poo. It came out so tiny, like a baby lizard.
I had forced it down the bath opening so no one would see. I washed myself clean, but pronounced myself evil.
The day he died, he actually took me with him. He took my self-confidence, my ability to defend myself, my peace of mind. I wrestle in my mind whenever I see an anti-abortion post. I feel terrible seeing a pregnant woman. I shut my eyes at the sight of a new born.
Till today, I still ask for his forgiveness, and in my dream he asked I make an open confession; thus, this post.
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