Postpartum

He used to come home
And provide me with security,
Bringing things that I love,
Chocolates and nuts covered in honey,
Or a pleasant surprise or two
Of budding roses and jewelry.

He used to hold me gently,
His arms around my waist,
Drowning me with his many sweet kisses
And that very hearty laughter.

He used to be funny,
Making me feel full of butterflies
Or sometimes it’ll start with a suppressed giggle
Morphing to my tremendous cackle.

Then it all changed, gradually.
As my belly started to swell,
Containing the life, half of me
The other half of him –
He started to distance
As I had grown bloated.

When I went home that day,
My belly gone back to before,
A child in my arms,
His face grew grim.
There was no warmth,
No surprises, hugs nor kisses.

From then on he went home,
The smell of lingering alcohol
And tobacco drowns him.
Never, not even once
Did he hold the child
Of half him and half me.

Then today, he went home as he always do,
Smelling of tobacco and liquor,
He had shouted as loudly as he could
And he stormed the nursery,
Holding the child
Of half him and half me,
He threw him to the wall.

I cried and pleaded,
Then rushed to the child
Of half him and half me
All messed up and broken
With its dangling battery.

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