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Empty.

By @MeaningfulMee

Empty.

She sits there.

On her second-hand sofa,

rubbing her stomach,

the baby inside.

And they listen,

to the symphony,

the harmonies of urban poverty.

Two men shouting in the flat overhead,

and the sirens that pass by.

Their blue lights flashing through the window,

shining against an empty bottle of rum.

One that sits on the countertop,

and has sat there for eight months now.

She is clean now.

It was a struggle,

the fight of her life,

the life she didn’t care about,

not until she saw those two lines.

A reason.

She felt that first kick,

and there,

in that moment.

there was nothing left to fill.

There was no more emptiness,

no volid left to fill,

with cheap liquenre and beer.

Today,

she bought some roses,

to fill that empty bottle

She bought a crib too,

saved up for weeks.

She was ready.

Ready just in time.

She looked around,

pride welling up inside.

She’d done it.

somewhere,

someone must have been looking down.

Cos she had no idea how,

She had put back all the pieces,

when a year ago they were nowhere to be found.

She feels a pain in her stomach,

worst than anything she’s felt before and she is smiling.

Cos her baby is on his way.

She thinks.

the ambulance picks her up.And she is smiling.

They pull up to the hospital,

take her into a room,

place her on a bed.

And she is smiling.

A midwife comes in,

and it takes a while.

The sun starts to rise,

as her baby boy is born.

She closes her eyes,

and waits for a cry.

The midwife holds the baby tight,

and she waits for a cry.

The midwife has panic in her eyes.

And she waits for a cry.

The midwife looks for a pulse,

and she waits for a cry.

She waits for a cry

But the only tears are her own.

The baby is still silent.

The baby is still.

Tears stain her faith

Cos if anyone,

anywhere was looking down,

they are crueler than fiction.

More evil as the sinners they forbid.

And she sits there,

on her second-hand sofa.

Empty again.

Then she sees the roses,

the bottle of rum.

She walks to the door,

grabs her purse,

her keys.

The bottle of rum

smashes it on the wall.

The roses scatter along the kitchen floor.

She’s back by one,

empty bottle in hand,

been empty since half twelve.

Stumbles to the sofa,

doesn’t get that far.

Lays next to the roses.

The sirens,

their blue light,

flashing against her skin,

tear-stained skin.

She opens another bottle,

she’ll sell the crib tomorrow,

Then go to the off liense,

maybe the pub.

Somewhere,

Anywhere,

where she can buy,

something.

Anything.

To feel something,

anything,

other than,

Empty.

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