In Silence; In Hiding

I find myself more and more pouring into my fiction, more and more into what I recognize as my mildly problematic addiction.
When I write what's in my mind at least it's out and it's known. 
When I write the non-fiction I can clarify and I can understand... but more and more it hurts.
More and more the old worries ride up in rebellion, more and more they swell like waves in an ocean storm; more and more until the dam breaks under a raindrop... and I follow suit.
I was Queen for a day, and then failure for a week, then a month, a year... life.
Oh life... a, if not THE, defining feature of my sex, is the finite thing I cannot create. 
Life; the thing given just to take itself away, life that could pass through a buttonhole, gone.

Life, only once I held it in me... life escaped me, life expired. 
Life; I can remember where it began, I can remember where I discovered it, I can remember when and where it ended. 
I remember the pain of that life.
I remember that life, but I am shunned when I speak of it. 
I am shamed when I seek solace. 
I am disgraced in the fact that I did not share what I would have then been shamed for.
I would have been shamed; and here she is revered, venerated, celebrated.
For I am shame. I feel this shame in silence, in the primal ache, craving violence.
I feel this ache in my heart for a heart that never beat.
I hear this cry in my ear, of a child who never drew a breath.
I feel the kicks of a child that never moved, that never got to have legs.
I carry in my heart a name... that I never got to call. A name I never go to share, a name I never had the chance to give.
I feel these things in silence, I feel these things in hiding because I am not allowed to feel these things out loud.