deepundergroundpoetry.com

Obselete

I hate being broken.
I hate being weak.
I hate being unable to move.
Or too afraid to speak.
I hate my tears.
I hate my stupid, irrational fears.
I hate that my weaknesses stop me from doing what I was made to do.
I hate that my disabilities are taking away these opportunities that were made for me.

His cries can't go unanswered.
His tears I cannot ignore.
He's my son.
But if my pain stands in front of me taking care of him--
Then what good am I?

Is this the beginning of that depression all these nice doctors keep telling me that I am going to get?

Or is this just how I usually am?

I did this on purpose.
I wanted a baby for so long.
Here he is.
Just for me.
I always hated perfection, then I saw his perfect little face.
The face of my savior.
The face of my little baby.
This is the face of the fluttering kicks.
The face of the heartbeat that played over the monitor I was hooked up to, waiting those hours until I was able to give life to this precious little angel.

He is perfect.
I stand before him merely a servant.
I love him.
But when I can't move.
All of me is broken. . .
I have no job anymore.
I was born to be a young mother, it had been in the stars since forever the first character I ever wrote down.
But because of a sprain--
A strain--
A twisted joint--
A pinched nerve--

Because of this broken piece of me, the one part of my back that makes it close to impossible for me to get up.
The reason why I cannot answer his cries and must rely on the bipolar staff of this hospital for now.

It makes me obsolete.

And that is the worst feeling any mother could ever face.