There was something in her, and it sometimes kicked.
It made her tummy rounder and bigger.
The doctor said she was too small to bear this something,
but her mother in a drunken stupor could not care less.
She yearned for love in the signs that she made,
in the words that could not escape her mouth.
But the man who threw her on the floor,
overpowered her, left her bleeding
went beyond what she could put sound to.
So she hid her shame till she could no more.
And when the something inside her grew too large,
it kicked at her tender, innocent heart.
The words again fled her mind as she lay writhing on the floor.
Oh what pain she bore.
(This is a poem to someone I knew. She died a few months back in premature child birth)