They Ask Me Why I Did It
The burden of holding it
in my arms
weighed me down to nothing.
I had not felt like myself for months,
and no one noticed my morning breath
at midnight or my late-night schnapps
scented coffee.
My hatred formed from the voracity it had to suck
on life itself. The way its eyes always locked on
to the deep creases of my misery
reminding me of the failure I had
become. My youth vanished
overnight, like the voices
of those who never cried.
(I wasn’t lucky enough for that.) Still
I held it in my arms, trembling, fighting
coherency. To say I tried is not enough, but
the constant cry for more, the unsatisfaction
from the satisfaction I didn’t provide.
I had not felt like myself for months,
and no one notice.
Since the beginning, I felt pain in the pit of my belly
like worms eating the flesh on my livelihood.
I felt the jab in my sides, and the violent fits of rage.
Then came the constant clawing
from the inside. I still have the scars to remind me
it was self-defense.
Against my chest, I squeeze it hard, a bitter lemon
not yet ripe, with so little juice to give.
A peace unfurled inside of me
As its final breath escaped
like plumes of smoke
from the mouth of my dying son.
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