RebelZva – Anarchy Guru

RebelZva & CaptXBonnot

We lost our baby.

Not “miscarried.” Not “pregnancy loss.”

We bled. A lot.

Hot and fast in the shower at first—red running down my legs, pooling at my feet while the water tried to wash it away like it never happened. I felt it leave me. Felt the cramp twist into something sharper, something final. I screamed once—short, broken—then nothing. Just silence and the sound of water hitting tile. My husband found me on the floor, knees drawn up, hands between my legs trying to hold something that was already gone. He carried me to the car, blood soaking his shirt, my jeans, the seat. I passed out somewhere between the driveway and the hospital.

The ER was bright and cold. Nurses with clipboards. A doctor who said “these things happen” like it was weather. They did an ultrasound—screen blank, no heartbeat, just empty space where our little rebel used to be. They gave me pills to finish what my body started, told me to go home and rest. No one asked if I wanted to see what came out. No one asked if I needed to hold it. They just handed me discharge papers and a bill.

The state didn’t catch us.

No social worker knocked on our door.

No grief counselor was waiting.

No community fund covered the cost.

Just a form to fill out for insurance that barely paid half. Just a quiet house when we got back. Just blood on the sheets we didn’t change for two days because we couldn’t look at them.

We grieved alone at first.

Curled on the couch, him holding me while I shook, both of us crying ugly, snotty, choking sobs. We smoked too much kush just to breathe. We fucked—hard, desperate, like we could fuck the hole closed. We cried during, after, in between. We didn’t pretend it was okay. We let it be ugly. We let it hurt.

That’s where anarchy lives.

Not in marches or manifestos.

In the refusal to let the system manage our pain.

In choosing to feel it all—raw, graphic, loud—when the state wants us numb and productive.

In holding each other when no one else will.

In turning grief into fuel instead of letting it paralyze us.

The hospital didn’t grieve with us.

The insurance company didn’t grieve with us.

The government didn’t grieve with us.

But we did.

We still do.

We’ll try again when we’re ready.

We’ll name the next one something fierce.

We’ll keep writing, keep loving, keep fighting.

Because the state can take our baby, our blood, our hope for a minute—but it can’t take our refusal to bow.

Grief is anarchist.

It refuses to be polite.

It refuses to be profitable.

It refuses to be quiet.

So we scream.

We cry.

We hold each other.

We get high.

We fuck.

We write.

We keep going.

No masters. No borders. No silence.

We lost our baby.

But we didn’t lose us.

• RebelZva & CaptXBonnot