Post-Partum Blues

My birthplace is gone. The sling, scene of so many labours, lies discarded in a box somewhere, my amyl spills and bodily fluids soaked into the leather. The mirrors no longer capture my foetal form, the cupboards no longer hold the canes and whips that facilitated my arrival. The amniotic spa is drained and cold, dried out, redundant. The moans have been steamcleaned out of the carpets, the blood has been scrubbed from the tiles with hospital grade disinfectant. The flowers have rotted and the cigars are long extinguished. Nobody is expecting anymore...