I’m trapped in a room where my baby dies

2 Nov

and I feel the weight of it in my hands,

brush my thumb against the smooth side

and curved point,

where dull marks bleed onto my skin.

 

Trapped in a room

constrained by time,

with a paper half marked up,

and my baby fading in my fingers.

 

No time to question

if the grade is

worth the sacrifice.