Birth

Writing by Molly Reed. Artwork by Kate Granholm (@katesartthings on Instagram)

It was springtime

When I gave birth to the darkness.

Amidst petals unfurling like sellotape,

And branches shedding their wings of frost,

She peeled herself from the lining of my uterus.

A child stained with blood and rot,

Clawing its way out of me.

She sprouted into a woman-

Eyes filled with blood

And lips lined with steel,

That sucked sleep and gold dust from my

Throat in the early hours

Of the morning.

She clung to my hair like vines,

Digging claws into warm folds of fat,

Stripping my skin of light.

She clung to me

Until my throat filled with cotton wool

And blood poured from broken eyelashes.

And so as winter approaches,

I wrap her in silk and cover her mouth with my

Fist.

Rip the metal from her mouth

And clog her eyes with cellophane.

I kiss her goodbye,

Tenderly,

On flesh thick with mold.

I bury her in a wooden casket

Deep beneath the green rind of the

Earth

And whisper-

Goodbye.

I fucking

Hate

You.

As winter approaches,

I free myself from her blood-stained shackles.

I let ice settle like steel on her

Corpse

And clasp my hands together in prayer.

Making space for the springtime -

For the ashen sunlight and swathes of ink blue

Sky,

For the flowers ripping out of barren earth,

The honey that tastes like breath.

Making space for something new

Something ripe

In a body slightly less

Broken.