Unworthy

There is a nightmare on the prowl, my baby disappeared in a rambunctious carnival crowd; left me comforting my fingers on a bottle of ink, discovered in horror on a leaky sink. Awash with shame, I sank to the dirty loo floor, where’d my poor neglected child go? Hungry and spent she must be dead by now; I haven’t the courage to step out this door. Perhaps I’ll just die of desperate sorrow; they’ll discover my ink stained body on the pot tomorrow. But guilt is such an insidious thing; I’m awake in the afterlife, still feeling like shit.