Girls who are boys who like boys to be girls

We can't listen to Blur anymore. A detail that isn't one.
On the 21st of June, I spent most of the day sprawled then curled up then sprawled again on the sofa, listening to Blur who we then watched on TV. Some repeat of a festival - Glasto or V, I can't remember.
On the 21st of June, Arthur died. He simply stopped living. Quietly. And whilst I was listening to Damon Albarn singing about kicking pigeons in the park, my baby died.

It doesn't matter that listening to any Blur song is a kick in the stomach thrusting me back to that day. It doesn't matter if I never listen to what used to be one of my favourite bands. It doesn't matter. What does matter is that I was unaware of the tragic fatality unravelling inside of me.
Of course, I couldn't have prevented it even if I had known - and in hindsight, it would have made all of it even worse. A mother - a parent - is supposed to protect her child but I couldn't. I was completely unable to do anything and if it happens again, I still will be. That's what gets me. What gets every mother in my position or every mother who has watched her baby or child die. This feeling of utter and complete helplessness.

My womb was meant to be the safest place for him.Warm and comfortable with food and room to move. It wasn't supposed to be a tomb.

Fuck you, life.
Fuck you, Blur.

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