Not good enough for me.
Not good enough for you.
Sitting in my car, on my lunch break, listening to the Boatman’s Call, smoking and wondering how to be better.
There’s so many things wrong with me and so many things other people see as good but I don’t.
I know where they came from.
I guess it doesn’t matter what the dreams were about. It’s just your brain getting things to end.
I wonder how long I can sit here before anyone notices I’m not at my desk?
I can’t remember how you smelled anymore, baby girl. All your clothes just smell like nothing now. I wish I hadn’t given your father your last pacifier. I can remember your soft skin and your grumpy morning face. You smiled a few times.
I’m so sorry. You were my third. I thought I knew everything about being a mom. Thought nothing of having you in bed with me. You died because I was too lazy to have you sleep in a bassinet. I didn’t want to have to get up to feed you and I’m so, so sorry. I hope you forgive me.
I hope there’s something for you. You deserved more than ten days. You deserved much more than me. I love you. Please forgive me.