Bird in my Soul

Emily Dickinson was right about hope: it never stops at all, but I would add to her poem (which I diligently memorized in grade school) that it is also a Mother Fucker. I came at this cycle with a steely determination not to fall victim to hope's seductive charms. But that bitch got me again. At the first slightest twinge of nausea, I was hers. I once again started reading into anything that could be taken a sign of pregnancy. Constipation? No, I don't need more fiber, I am pregnant. Tired? Not lazy, it's my first trimester. I am sure that I will even try to convince myself that my period is really just implantation bleeding. I even have a new way to announce to my closest friends that I am pregnant. It's cheeky and makes fun of all of the drama, and I might never get to use it.

I supposed if I didn't have hope, then I would give up, and I am not ready to give up yet. So little bird with your prickly feathers and scratchy claws, you have a stay of execution.

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