1950's House Wife

*Author's note: When I copy and paste my work from word I cannot get the spaces in-between the lines to go away, and it never creates the stanzas that I have in place, and it's so frustrating. Any help with this? Just so you know, it was suppose to be a new stanza every four lines.*

Slithering under the comforter,

sliding on my house shoes,

and tiptoeing to the bedroom door,

I am careful not to wake you.

As the door creaks,

I watch you to make sure dreamland still envelopes you.

I don't even bother closing the door,

as I walk slowly as first down the lavender carpeted stairs.

I can no longer see them beneath my feet;

I just have to trust that they are there.

As my belly bounces with each step,

I consider the earthquake that must be happening inside.

Making it to the kitchen,

I quiet my insides with just the smell of the hot chocolate.

Wrapping my hands around the warmth of the mug,

I close my eyes and dream of what she'll be like.

Of course, she'll have your light blonde hair,

if any at all.

Of course, she'll inherit your grey-blue eyes,

the ones that dance at my sight.

She'll be chubby and short,

loud and needy,

but what will she get from me;

not much, I hope.

I chance a sip of the steaming mug,

and rub the abdomen that has now become her home.

I didn't invite her here, but her daddy sure did.

How could I refuse those soft hands, those gentle words?

I knew from day one I would be a terrible mother.

So, why are we here in this place?

I know what she'll learn from me,

my anxiety, long nights of worrying and drinking hot chocolate.

For a second, I close my eyes and try to imagine our future life.

A messy living-room, home cooked meals in the oven,

homework strewed across the table, daddy and her in the back yard.

But, where do I fit in?

A messy bun, worn down make-up,

cleaning off the table, regretting her,

yearning for my other life,

the one that never got a chance to blossom.

Before I can open my eyes,

a pair of strong, calloused hands rub my shoulders.

“You're always so tense these days, hmm”

A kiss on my cheek gives him time to think.

“Can't sleep?”

A kiss on his cheek leaves room for the growing distance between us.

How could he ignore my unhappiness so easily?

“Oh you know, the baby's awake, so I'm awake.”