whiskey stained lips
and dull grey eyes
make up a wonderful disguise
for the quicksand you're drowning in.

a four week old baby girl
lies in the sea known as your lap;
she's smiling,
but only because the innocence
entwined in the long brown locks of her hair
have yet to be revealed.

red notebooks and pink lemonade
envelop the darkness surrounding
your frail being,
not entirely acknowledging how
brittle your bones actually are.

trapped in trepidation,
you plummet into desolation,
pondering on the thought that
this could bring utter elation
and it did;
but it was only in your head.