I have a child in me, never quite born,
Died at birth, in a stillborn's mournful yawn.
The baby was born a woman, so serene,
With her head too big, her toes too sleek and sheen.
Her hair had greyed and her lips had crumbled.
A dead soul born, her beauty a struggle.
Her soul wasn't breathing, but her heart sang a song,
Of lullabies and dreams, where she didn't belong.
She seemed fine, but just not right,
Cheeks grey, clothes dark, eyes empty in the night.
Her smile cracked a little, lips not quite pink,
She felt like a stone, and still lives like one within.
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