Weak, wintery sunlight illuminates the fine layer

of dust that has

                          settled on every flat surface

                          and

                          crept into every crevice

                          like a malignant fungus

                          hell-bent on colonising my living room. 
I pace.
Jeans too-tight over my bottom,

the flesh that wobbles round my middle is as foreign

to me as this wailing,

                                        scrunch-faced

                                                           bundle in the rocker. 
Utterly alien. 
He smells

and the sickly, sweet smell of excrement
curdles and

              flips my stomach.
The day s t r e t c h e s

                                         into infinity.

The sonic boom of a plane,

laughing neighbours and the hum of traffic

                                                                  meld into a symphony of a world

                                                                  I cannot get to. 
The colour

                    seeps

                             slowly            away and

all is grey.
The seventh cup of tea is tepid

and acrid

with artificial sweetener

that pretends to

                          melt

excess flesh from my frame.
Babyweight,

is the euphemism,

as if it is a                      shameful secret

                                        trembling under

                                        loose t-shirts

                                        and stretchy leggings,

                                                                                                             desperate not to be found.
I remember when I drunk

my tea hot

             and sweet with sugar,

I had idly

             stroked my growing bulge,

                                                      joyful in my ignorance.
The nappy bag

                            is sulky with disuse.

The myriad of

                            confusing pockets

and

                            insulated compartments are just

                                                                                     too much to bear.

Too motherly.

Too someone else –

who is

             coping. 
My friends call and call.

I cannot speak

for fear. 
There is only so much fakery

                                                     I can perform.
The mask of motherhood

                                        is a diabolical one,
I slip it off between these       walls,

and it chafes when I am          out.
Day fades

             into a dull evening as I sit.

             Beige and grey,

             my brain is

             stultified.

             Counting the minutes, the hours

                                                                  until I do it

                                                                  all

                                                                  again.