She’s the kind of girl who calls everybody baby.

Honey, sugar, sweetie; she’s always making friends.

They tell her they love her in between burnt sugar kisses,

and in the lull between the unbuttoning and the tears,

she realizes they’re lying.

She used to find solace in the sound of the rain,

until her eyes became the only storm clouds she knew.

For the feel of gentle moisture will never substitute

for the touch of that child she left to die,

drowned in some antiseptic sea.

She calls herself pro life now,

but believes she’s just pro redemption.

Hiding in pious self loathing,

and stained glass self righteousness,

fruitlessly striving to bury sins too heavy for a grave.

She’s the kind of girl who calls everybody baby,

but the stock of her heart can be measured

by the emptiness of her house,

of her heart,

of her womb.