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Rated: E · Poetry · Emotional · #1519204
I believe this is the result of postpartum depression.
First Days

I wake, lean over a crib,
Speak softly to the person there,
Eyeing me coolly, wanting me,
Mouth stretched open wide,
Banshee screams escaping.
He has cut his face
With his razor nails.
There has been a death,
I am told, although far away
I feel his touch
On my heart, his fingers digging
Deeply into the beating flesh,
Pieces lodging themselves
Under his fingernails.
© Copyright 2009 Elizabeth Kidd (azureseay at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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