pregnant.
 

Six months ago I dreamt you were pregnant
and now with this cold winter and its talk of hospital appointments
that whisper down to me, drenched in ether and distorted
as these things get.
I find myself strangely empty at the thought.

And it's not like my youth was wasted with you; not entirely
I've since fought to regain the self I lost, and what was lost
needed to go anyway, or so I thought and on I went,
but anyway, the thought of you splintering into another
with another who is not stained with my eyes,
suddenly scares me afresh, like that day you sat me down.

You held me then, and told me you were already gone
and I wept and cast my rose petal eyes to that grim stained ceiling,
and it mocked me; You'd spent the evening crafting him exotic letters,
whilst I stared at the wall for eternity.

And I wept and shook as if my heart was being torn apart by a million tiny ants,
instead of the cold truth that it was just blood in an indifferent vessel.
And so he became a vessel for your love and I heard nothing bar the shouting,
I'd inflict on myself in running guerrilla warfare. I was defeated and eventually died again and was born again,
and I left so much of myself behind, you'd wonder why.
But the vessel sailed on and left only that liquid that stained the floor; Nobody found me there as I lay alone,
but on the next morning I rose and began to bag your clothes, and I wept no more.

Over months, I fell to anger, bubbling and boiling and I lashed out at you silently, raged that my love was stolen,
rather than the truth; that I had failed it and not saved but spent it and whilst it burned, I bit at it and tore at it
and tried to keep it safe, when a flame needs air to burn.

But as a flame is soon extinguished, my anger fell to sorrow once more. A cold mature gravel
drive-way, that led to those depressing houses that the most despised children at your school lived in; I trod these paths!
I tread them still, to try to find the selfish self I left behind. Meanwhile,
your life briefly touched mine, and your words were mine once more.
This time I kept them hidden, and joy burnt within as I was dead no longer to you, but had now moved on.

Oh, the world was rearranged and you sent me flailing forwards, the past became a strange cold fuel.
But then I heard you might be pregnant, and all my thoughts return to you.

Gosh, does my writing really suck that much? I still think this is probably the most complete poem I've ever written. Or am I merely ripping off Plath? Come on, anyone? Everytime I see no replies my confidence takes a kicking.