Kate Read

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June 8th, noonish, my 34th Birthday.

I took myself to the local reservoir.

Laid on a rock jetty + got into the fetal position.

I wanted to talk to her.

My womb twin (who didn’t make it).

Just days before, her hidden imprint became conscious.

‘Can we talk?’, I asked.

I heard nothing + balled up even tighter.

The water in all directions swelled and soothed my growing grief.

‘Are you there?’, I pleaded.

Still nothing.

Agony of the deepest tone rung out {{{‘forget me’}}}

This message, though not from her, was my marching order.

It was time to forget something I just remembered.

It was time to let go of my first love.

And the story of guilt permeating it.

That somehow it was my fault she didn’t make it.

That I’m the ‘wrong’ person I’ve falsely + so subconsciously known myself to be.

The days following, surely covered all 5 stages.



Rage @ her for leaving. Rage @ me for staying.

I felt evil.

Than suicidal.

I grunted, groaned + gripped the phone w/ 911 in fingers reach.

1 in 8.

One in eight (!)

Are said to be vanishing womb twins.

A high percentage don’t you think?

I’m left with why?

Why do we choose to incarnate w/ beings that don’t make it all the way through?

Perhaps to move our human story toward the cosmic one.

Beyond beliefs of ‘I’m alive’ + ‘I’m dead’.

Where we operate as souls who are neither alive nor dead.

Rather a part of life itself.

A WHOLE part.

From this place it seems love is easier.

Without the loom of loss, it’s all that’s left.

I write this for those who have loved + lost.

For those who have lost + forgotten they’ve lost (as I did).

I write this for those experiencing the pain of mistaking they are somehow incomplete w/out…

Him. Her. Them.

I understand that pain.

That pain is asking us to fall through.

And keep falling.

Thru the sky.

Because that’s what we’re doing.

Falling thru the sky.



The AZ highway.

A mere sliver through grieving eyes.

Keep driving, Kate.

I’m in the middle of a get-a-way, you see.

My escape artistry playing out at the conclusion of a Midwest bachelorette.

Missed connection fuels age-old ‘I gota go’.

Through thick walls of sadness, I hug the bride-to-be + co.

Could they feel it I wondered?

I was slow in exiting.

Making sure to mask my mounting code red.

@ 9000 miles a minute, where was I racing?

I had no idea.

But over there was somehow better than here.

I gazed @ the car clock.

8:35 AM.

My flight wasn’t til 10:35 PM.

Time taunted, amplifying my fear of here.

What’s here?

And why is it so f’in frightening?


More accurately, the hunger for here hurts.

For it’s plastered with ways I still don’t let myself feel.

When alone + especially around others.

Where I co-dependently lean on x, y, z + a-w.

Because I’m petrified of myself.

Of staying in my feeling self, that is.

I’m beginning to see origins ::

Where my feeling self met rejection.

In those early developmental stages, said rejection equated to unmet needs.

And during dependent years, unmet needs could mean death.

Feeling = death.

Quite the conundrum for the ‘feeler’.

I often ask myself how to return to feeling when I’ve side stepped.

Pretty sure how is the wrong question.

It’s the hunger not the how.

The hunger will break apart the code red mission of :: !DO.NOT.FEEL!

It will shatter mountains of tension that kept down feeling to keep us alive.

The hunger aches (if we let it).

The tension throbs (if we allow it).

But it’s not suffering.

It’s not a belly gorged on co-dependent crutches {substance, people, mental musing, anything over >>> there}.

Stay famished my friends.

The discontent of our emptiness is no doubt divine.