I'm not an incubator

My bones melt into the bed sheets
I can’t move without screaming on the inside  
 
Today is a bad day  
 
I feel you moving against the home  
I’ve built around you  
sometimes I smile  
sometimes I can’t sleep with the pain  
of your tiny limbs pressing into my walls  
with a stubbornness I can’t coerce  
into something more sleep worthy  
 
My body is not kind to me on days like these  
and I wonder if I am too old for this  
 
Dishes piled high by the sink  
we live on salads and microwave-friendly foods  
eaten off paper plates  
because the pain in my hands  
can barely do more than type out a text message  
without my meridian nerve betraying me  
 
I imagine right now is what it feels like to be 80  
fires burning in my spirit  
while my limbs and joints can’t seamlessly  
follow the instructions from my brain  
telling them what to do  
 
Some days I forget that I’m a person  
like pregnancy is little more  
than being an incubator for a life  
that some people will tell me is more precious than my own
just not in those exact words  
 
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t resent your existence  
I only wish people had more compassion than  
to tell me to suck it up, as long as you’re doing just fine  
 
Not knowing that I haven’t left the house in days  
because I can’t walk far enough to escape the cabin fever  
without being able to get back home  
 
Not knowing that I’m too embarrassed to let anyone visit  
because I am too unwell to clean the house  
 
Not knowing that I can’t drive or take the bus  
or get to the beach long enough  
to feel the sand between my toes  
as the ocean tide soothes away my worries  
 
Not knowing that I made it through my first pregnancy  
with perinatal depression that was so intense and isolating  
I still consider it a miracle that I’m alive today  
your big sisters' life the only reason I chose to keep breathing  
 
My bones melt into the bed sheets  
I can’t move without screaming on the inside  
 
Today is a bad day  
and I’m tired of pretending that I’m okay  
 
© Indie Adams 2019