I got stuck in the thinking.

The horrors of…

The broken hopes;

The dreams;

The nightmares;

Wanting them;

Needing them…

Hoping still.

Being triggered when least expected.

The landscape of gray.

The smell of hand cleansers to get the blood off my hands.

The sight of blood and clots, and how it haunts memories for months.

Hating my bathroom because that’s where it happened.

The sanctity poisoned by the unholy flushing away what could’ve been a baby.

Horrors no one else will ever feel unless they’ve visited, too.

Feeling faint from blood loss, from the surreal nature, from the crying.

Not wanting food, but forcing it down anyway.

The relief of laying down in bed, sullen and afraid that next wave of blood will send me running to the bathroom… Then it happens yet again.

Sitting on the toilet for four hours.

When it’s all over, the intangible yet haunting sensation of being unclean.

Of being a coffin.

Disbelieving things will ever be different.

Wondering why.

Hating reality.

Questioning that it all happened.

Sorrowing privately.

For months.

Grieving heart, mind, and soul.

And being stuck in this…


So it is a place.


Miscarriage Land is a place.

And I have visited.