5b31735c5928d58177df3883e4df1a01Cosmopolitan published a love letter an aborting mother wrote to the baby she was planning to abort October 17, who she called “Little Thing.” So this baby has likely now been suctioned and chopped to little pieces.

The mother made her ghastly intent sound poetic, which Cosmo said proved aborting mothers aren’t “emotionless robots who have not given any thought to the decision they are making.”

Rather, I wanted to vomit. Aside from melodic rubbish, the mother wrote a lot that didn’t make sense, such as “I promise I will see you again, and next time, you can call me Mom.”

Where, in heaven? She thinks God will reward her for killing her baby by letting them cosmically float together again in the afterlife, where the Mom can live in blissful eternity with the child she murdered?

Or perhaps she believes in reincarnation, imagining her aborted baby would want to return to her savage uterus for a do-over. Does she think she deserves this reward?

I don’t know. In my mind this letter was a psychotic, dissociated, very disturbing mess wrapped in a pretty bow. What do you see?

Little Thing:

I can feel you in there. I’ve got twice the appetite and half the energy. It breaks my heart that I don’t feel the enchantment that I’m supposed to feel. I am both sorry and not sorry.

I am sorry that this is goodbye. I’m sad that I’ll never get to meet you. You could have your father’s eyes and my nose and we could make our own traditions, be a family. But, Little Thing, we will meet again. I promise that the next time I see that little blue plus, the next time you are in the same reality as me, I will be ready for you.

Little Thing, I want you to be happy. More than I want good things for myself, I want the best things for the future. That’s why I can’t be your mother right now. I am still growing myself. It wouldn’t be fair to bring a new life into a world where I am still haunted by ghosts of the life I’ve lived. I want you to have all the things I didn’t have when I was a child. I want you to be better than I ever was and more magnificent than I ever could be. I can’t do to you what was done to me: Plant a seed made of love and spontaneity into a garden, and hope that it will grow on only dreams. Love and spontaneity are beautiful, but they have little merit. And while I have plenty of dreams to go around, dreams are not an effective enough tool for you to build a better tomorrow. I can’t bring you here. Not like this.

I love you, Little Thing, and I wish the circumstances were different. I promise I will see you again, and next time, you can call me Mom.

-h

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