Postpartum Psychosis

Have I grown my observation skills?
Or am I without clues?
Is it really OG Me?
Or am I hung up on what they call “the baby blues”?

Have I truly grown ugly,
Or was this ‘me’ all along?
Who am I now, that girl too naïve,
Or a mother so strong?

I think it’s what they keep telling me, the postpartum,
That must have sharpened my reflexes.
I have the sleep of a bitch,
A restless mind that too perplexes.

I have never been bothered,
By hanging skin on someone else’s belly.
Now that I have my own,
How to put it, candy once, now out of jelly.

I don’t know why everyone is after,
That the child has the beauty of this or that.
Someone’s claiming it has their eyes, ears, and smile.
All I can figure out is that I haven’t slept enough in a while.

Now that I’m stuck in this loop that seems never-ending,
Amidst all the needing, kneading,
Feeding, and on-again bleeding.
Was it really like this before, or is my hairline really receding?

Oh, the light of my skin,
I think it has grown fond of the dark.
I’m on a losing spree, I’ve lost appetite, desire, sanity,
But not the weight, anxiety, or the stretch marks.

What have I become?
Is this postpartum psychosis?
Everyone has some say, some cure for it.
Whatever it is, I’m writing my own prognosis.

Let me be a so-called bitch for some time,
For once, let me do this my way.
Let me be the phoenix of my story,
Let my hope remain, my only ray.