Post-partum Wears an Iron Dress
Today is the end of my life, I
gave birth to an iron dress.
I'm stained with her infantile stench
and the father's alcoholic kiss.
Time goes by so slowly
when you're trying to suffocate yourself
I'm a whore
to an ugly drunk, a mother
to a pile of screaming fecal matter.
Even besides that pleasant aroma, I could never
touch her. She's everything
I'll never have again; everywhere I'll never
be able to go.
I feel her pressing, cold and hard,
against my tired body,
and act as if defecating her onto
the operating table wasn't enough.
She screams for my breast like I
owe it to her, like I asked for her,
the beast in my belly.
Copyright: Meagan Jeanette 2005