Before we are, we were.
Before we were, there was
- what? Potential? Something.
Surely, something that was,
and then was not. A candle
put out, made dark
before it could ever burn, or
know it was a candle at all.
Before eighteen weeks, the fetus
feels nothing. There is no pain
upon it's removal, though
there is a void of sorts. Something
missing that could have been.
And to it we have no words,
only justifications, only beliefs.
Only the assumption that a lack
of pain makes it right. Only that
the shattering of souls
does not diminish us at all.
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