They’re beautiful, I was told by everyone.
You always love your child, with their newborn smell.
But what does that make me?
The mum that cannot bear to look at the baby in her arms,
With milk dried in fleshy folds of chunky necks
And circle mouths that let out cooing sounds.
I hate myself for hating this,
The thing it’s law to love.
But bubble baths and baby soap never did fulfil
The aching hole that seared my soul
When the child was pulled from me,
Screaming for a swift return
To a place that just exists, in a dreamy flight.