When the Lilacs Kill

It rained blood that night. The sky, like a wounded metador, gushed to no end a redness fresh and warm. And sickly scented.

Recalling it she winced again. Her pain had only been mounting since. Wincing, tossing, turning, not a moment had gone by when she wasn't hurting. Every stab of memory brought another bout of pain, and each time it hit her so hard she vomited. 

She threw up again. Floating in the pool of bile, there was that name tag again. Her whole body convulsed with the empty heaving, yet she noticed the tag even with her half shut eyes. Without reaching for it, she knew what that chit carried. 
"This won't end", she thought ruefully.

Closing her eyes she wished for her mind to go blank. The agonizing plight of her loss was too much to bear. She had undergone a miscarriage that night, the night it had rained like a wounded metador: A miscarriage of hope. 

Silent sobs raked her body. 

She had been writing odes to her unborn hope. 
There was one she had even ventured out to share with the world, beaming with pride, a hand over her swollen belly pregnant with the possibility. 
The words rang out in her head:

In all the languages you speak,
in all those I remember,
No word contained the texture of kiss. 

Of all the ages you've travelled,
of all the times I've existed,
No moment froze the scent of lilac.

Under all the nights, through all the days,
In maps traversing land and milky ways
No star shone so bright
like the sun that rises
every night when I make my home
along the shores of your heart beat.
There, nestled under the open skies
of mating want and surrender,
At the cusp of divinity and earthiness,
I smell Lilac.
I say your name. 

"Your name", she repeated. She had made love to that name. Her heart felt another tremor rising. She felt it contorting the muscles in her chest. This time she wailed like a banshee.

All she had hoped for was to receive the same lilacs; to taste the same love draped around her name. Hungering for it, she had trampled over her pride, even begged for it! But her name wasn't a part of the present. 

"Keep the hope, nurture it. Wait!" she was told each time.
She went back to living wait. Went back to feeding the hope, the hope of savoring love. 
Thinking of how it'd feel like made her swoon every time.

That night, when it rained like a wounded metador, her name became a part of the present without a warning. It occurred and reoccurred, and then occurred some more. There was no texture of a kiss, only pelting bullets. Spitted out with venom, hitting each time with the ferocity of a meticulous executioner, her own name became her butcher. The sternness of it held her in place while every blow landed on her heart.  

Till her pregnant belly echoed with hollowness.

Too foolish to care to protect themselves, those who bare their pregnant bellies often get killed.

"My name", she thought wistfully and felt again the bile rising in her throat. 
She was sick of throwing up her name since that night. The longing for the lilacs she had nurtured, killed her.