Blue Paint
Tamryn Spruill
The baby failed to latch.
Exhausted from the effort, her
neck slumped beneath the weight
of her round and heavy head.
From warm breast to manufactured surface, it
landed on the changing table--
a compressed-sounding thud
signaling death.
In the tenth of a second it took the infant’s skull to fall, her
pale-pink, spit-covered lips hardened into the permanent, crimson-stained mouth of a
vintage doll. Downy, plump cheeks solidified in
antique stiffness, coated in shiny lacquer.
In the mirror, my areolas were the
blue of vibrancy and vim. But the nipples from which
the baby had botched her attempt to drain life
were still brown.
The baby failed to latch.
Exhausted from the effort, her
neck slumped beneath the weight
of her round and heavy head.
From warm breast to manufactured surface, it
landed on the changing table--
a compressed-sounding thud
signaling death.
In the tenth of a second it took the infant’s skull to fall, her
pale-pink, spit-covered lips hardened into the permanent, crimson-stained mouth of a
vintage doll. Downy, plump cheeks solidified in
antique stiffness, coated in shiny lacquer.
In the mirror, my areolas were the
blue of vibrancy and vim. But the nipples from which
the baby had botched her attempt to drain life
were still brown.
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