Stillborn

Fetal

Tiny fingers clasp around an umbilical cord and weave it into a noose
A boy of 9 months twirls it between his fingers as he contemplates the choices of his next few moments
It chafes against his skin as he slips it around his neck
They'll play it off as a misscariage, not as an effect of pre-birth depression
Abortion by choice
He itches for the feeling of death
Like the smell of alcohol on his mother's breath
He wants the fetal position to become associated with rigor mortis
But tiny arms can only reach so far
And it's hard to hang yourself when you're suspended in water

Birth

He writhes from the womb
A maggot tinged blue
Tainted by the first failure of many to come
He is birthed rotten on the inside
Eyes grey with suicide
Born dressed in black and fed by rash desire
Quarantined by his own thoughts
He's expunged into this world to walk with a fatal infection
A corpse gifted with the curse of life

Incubation

He does not cry, but his heart is heavy
For he knows it's useless to try and escape his new Hell
An electrical oven entombs him and it's useless to scream
He has failed in his attempt, and he will never get another chance
The stale air burns his throat
Afterbirth cakes and dries around his scarred neck
And he becomes a stranger in his own skin.