Iris reaches a pale hand out to press against the walls of my womb. She tugs on my umbilical cord and then she’s gone.
Don’t haunt me, baby. You are too small to move things around and make the lights flicker.
I see her in the corner of the mirror and her head lolls forward to display a bulging fontanel.
This is not a pretty thing at all, this grief. She was not a pretty thing. Dead things are not pretty, they are cold and the colour of oil on tarmac.
I sit in meetings and push my thumb against a sore on the knuckle of my right index finger. I am alive and my body relishes its welts. She hovers and reminds me of the other hurt. She is a gasp.
She is my breath. She has no breath. Gasp. Inhale. Exhale. Irisssssssssssss. She rustles the paper in my hand.
I want to write something for you. Something that will make you feel less lonely. My heart squirms like a chicken foetus in an egg.
There is no way to say the things that must be said. I am not wise, I tell ghost stories to the internet.
I should be sold next to pumpkins and plastic skeletons. Do you like to be scared? Come and sit next to me. Hush. Be very quiet. Do you hear that nothing? That’s my daughter laughing.
If you don’t have something nice to say... then say it here. Do you ever find your grief a bit gruesome?