Birth Day

The room is red,
The floor is cold.
A baby
No one knows,
Shattered across glistening tiles.

You had few options, true.
But-
They were
Options.
To save a live,
Or watch it die.

Door number three was found.
And your solution
Did not involve nine months of solitude,
The embarrassment of Planned Parenthood,
Missing out on teenage normalcy.
And why make life more difficult,
After all?

A drink,
No, two (Or three)
Could drown this cell out.
(Four, to be safe)
But you’ve forgotten,
It’s not a cell,
Not at all.
It’s a baby;
It’s a boy.
It’s breathing, beating,
And now dying.
Another drink:
Sends him spinning,
Vision blurring.

And what alcohol didn’t solve
Smoking did.
This human
With black lungs and a tiny cry.
Is now heaving,
Coughing,
Wondering what his mother is doing.

And you knew what you were doing:
Not listening--
Not growing.
Expelling the undesired
Consequence.

Now
The floor is red,
Her face is white,
Ear splitting screams crack the silence,
Of her baby’s.
Lifeless.
Heart.