Tea steam, polite hands, the small bright lies. "Good girl," they say, and the room complies. Inside, a hollow learns its own disguise — I carry absence like a name. My cardigan hides the fiction. My desk keeps its face. They said "you're not a mother yet." I said "watch me fake it." I'm pregnant — with a void! I'm pregnant — and I don't know why! The body is a borrowed word — I keep the emptiness alive! At work, the glances tilt and multiply. I touch my stomach, let the rumor lie. No cradle, no future, no soft reply — just a shape that asks to be believed. The mirror gives back a stranger — soft-edged, obedient, clean. But inside the borrowed body, something wild keeps breathing. I'm pregnant — with a void! I'm pregnant — and I don't know why! The body is a borrowed word — I keep the emptiness alive! A shield. A door. A way to make the world look harder. A way to stand inside the gap. If I disappear, they call it health. If I comply, they call it grace. I keep the vacancy intact — and wear the shape of what they praise. I'm pregnant — with a void! I'm pregnant — and I don't know why! The body is a borrowed word — I keep the emptiness alive! I'm pregnant... with nothing.
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