What it Means to Lose Touch

Another story-poem written collaboratively with the GPT-2 model neural network (https://transformer.huggingface.co/). I was much more selective/directive with the choices for this one, using the transformer as more of a limitation than a writing partner. I did a good amount of pruning, but I ONLY used words/phrases/punctuation that the AI suggested (even if it only suggested them after a dozen refreshes and some tweaking of the “temperature” setting)

Note: This work contains themes that some readers may find disturbing. (Author’s rating: PG)

1.

My son never said anything 
offensive
or out of line.
He was always respectful
and quiet
and polite
and careful.
He didn't have any major disciplinary concerns,
he wasn't bullied
he wasn't an attention seeker
or overly emotional
as some young boys can be.
He was very bright,
with brilliant eyes
and a voice
that did not carry far.
He had friends,
and he was always social,
always going to birthday parties.
He was not obsessive
or needy
or aggressive
or easily distracted
or mean toward animals.
 
He didn't do anything wrong.
 
Even so, 
there were days,
maybe,
sometimes,
when all I wanted was for him to 
disappear 
without a word,
so that I could get back to being me again
(which is not to say that I wanted him to die,
or be taken away,
or be anything at all)

When he told me he loved me,
it made me feel sick,
like I had just stepped in dog shit.
(For those of you who have never been there I promise,
it feels so much worse than it sounds.)
I remember thinking that there was something
terribly wrong with me,
that I must be some type of monster
to care that little.
( I know now that wasn't entirely true )
I think he must have sensed
that I felt nothing
but pity and contempt
towards him.
I think he understood that.
I know he understood why.

2.

I tried very hard not to think about my ex-husband,
or my life before my pregnancy
or the things I might have done differently.

It didn't matter.
All of it went away when my child was born.
The only thing that mattered
was getting out of bed each morning
to feed him
and look at him
and cry
when I could manage it.
(when he wanted me to)

I was afraid to think about myself
(how could my body look so empty?)
or about other girls my age,
and in my position
(did they also feel so dead tired?)
or what my future looked like now
(how was I supposed to do this alone?)
but it didn't really matter.

My baby was healthy,
and full of life
and strength
and innocence
and potential
and everything that had been stolen from me.

3.

I don't know how I survived those first few years
( it has left scar tissue on my memory)

I had nightmares
almost always
where an awful black snake slithered in my belly
( I've forgotten its name, but not the feeling )
and I woke up screaming and thrashing,
yet all I did was sleep
and drink water
and try to recover the energy necessary
to go into town for groceries,
and some weeks 
even the water tasted bitter
and the pain in my stomach
was not enough to get me out of bed.

My doctor said that it was
"just postpartum blues"
or something,
and he told me
to get plenty of sunshine
and exercise
and eat properly
and" everything should go back to normal soon."

( I'm still waiting )

4.

The day my son started school,
I cried because,
despite everything,
I'd never been away from him
for so long.
And then,
when it was time to pick him up again,
I cried
because it wasn't long enough.
 
But he looked better that evening
than I had seen him in weeks
And he wasn't hungry.
(He was always hungry)
And then the next day
his teacher said that we should
"take special care of ourselves "
because there was a 
"nasty virus" 
going around
and half the class was out sick.

5.

It's not fair to say I didn't love him
( I gave him everything )
( you have no idea )

I love my son
in spite of what he is,
the same way I love myself.

We're the same kind of
selfish, pitiful thing,
both human and not human
as our father was
before us
and our families are always broken,
because we need more
than any one person can offer
And when they grow tired
when they stop caring
when they hate us
when they leave
we always understand why.