A slam poem for the “man” who shook my new born baby; at only 47 days old...

I hate what you did; more so that it doesn't affect you; yet it haunts me, like a demonic presence. I'm left baffled, confused, hurt, angered, and stuck in a cataclysmic shock.

I hate that you carelessly waste the days away, not a thought in your mind; yet not even the phoniest of smiles , could hide the worry or paint the illusion of "okay" upon my face.

I hate how terribly sickening it is to know, it doesn't faze you; while it never ceases to slaughter my hazy existence.

I hate how the youngest got the ultimate punishment, for simply being too small, to spar with daddy the giant; the great magician who hung, the moon, the stars and the sun for his blue eyes to see.

I hate that it's I, who lies in the dead of the night; consumed by the guilt, anger, and pain of your snap action; while you slumber the darkness away, dreaming of the delightful wonderment the morning light will surely bring.

I hate that you continue with your lofty life, while I'm left unable to imagine up how normalcy could look; for the story book family, you checked out but never returned.

I hate how It'll never be the same fairytale pages we proudly displayed; only the nightmare you conjured; the frightful tale of how life became an inescapable and hellish reality.

I hate that it was the most innocent, and smallest two of us all, who suffered the most dreaded fate; while the strong, mighty, great creator of the chaos himself, snuck away with only the faintest of taps on the wrist.

I hate how I can't fix the small lives you shattered, while mindlessly shaking the splatters upon their walls. Mistakes of the likes can't be mended, for the two littles undeserving of the ending; you so callously wrote.

I hate the way I dream of things, other parents complain of. I ache for a hug by small dirty hands and to hear meek voices calling for their momma. It sucks how I know without a doubt there's arms wrapped snug, around your neck, by a bright eyed boy begging to play one last round of "giddy up" with you, the best super hero of all.

I hate that you're happy with the mistakes you wrote, while everyone else is left torn, displaced and shattered by the horror we never chose; praying still, this story you've wrote, has a plot twist.

I hate that you held the trust of someone so tiny and, shattered every expectation he'd so bravely bestowed upon you. His world now broken with not even a faint frown or sliver of remorse, to be seen in the calm of your face.

I hate how your days are filled with "I love you's", games of tag, and bellowing laughter. My days are spent wishing to feel a slobbery kiss, the hug of tiny arms, or a sweaty heap of warmth curled in my lap for a nap.

I hate that you hear the echos of stomps, giggles, and happy squeals, while I hear the deafening silence you left with the pain and suffering, meant as our final gift.

I hate that I tear only me apart, for mistakes, I don't own, while watching you on a pedestal as one of the greats for the lies they foolishly ate.

I hate that it's my littles, who wonder why mommy just left, and how they must feel certain, she simply doesn't love them; as yours knows he's the center of your universe, created for only you to savor.

I hate going to bed, with no little men to cradle, no tiny hands to hold, and not even a few curly locks to admire; left to wake, with no little tummies or toes to tickle and no way to fill the morning silence with bubbly banter.

I hate the tiny snippets of clothing and toys left behind, as cruel reminders of the happy perfection that once filled these silent and all but hollow walls.

I hate that you don't have to see what your destruction left for the rest; when there isn't a nook or cranny to offer a quiet solace, from our screaming minds, shattered hearts, or weary souls.

I hate that you play and cheerfully giggle with a child you don't deserve; but I miss mine, who I begged and prayed for all those nights ago.

I hate that you have everything my heart desires; wrapped in your arms, while too blind to see the magic you hold; still boldly showing malcontent, at a sight I'd glady run into fire to behold.

I hate how you wake up with innumerable blessings, in the face of a tot; who loves you proudly, while you can't be bothered to even glance up.

I hate that you'll never, consider how great that child is, while I daydream of my tiny life givers.

I hate the way I can hear your complaints of messes left by little hands and feet; the dirt proving all too tempting, at your dismay and anger. I'd trade the world over to chase someone small, and turn cleanup into giggling tag.

I hate how tall you stand, and how proudly you smile; while happily making, two children take the punishment, who's sting too harsh for even you to bare.

I hate how two little sets of hands felt the safest holding yours, and you aren't even sorry for all the ways you let them down. There's no apologies for the things you did to break their trust, crush their hearts, or the betrayal that upheaved the ground they stood upon.

I hate the way you still shove them down; while their hearts search for the hero they marveled at with giddy and glee; who only turns his glorious back.

I hate that you took the word "family" and you twisted it; until it was synonymous with words like monster, evil, terror, fear, and fright for two littles who held nothing back, just placed all the stars in your eyes, to catch a twinkle as you looked their way.

I hate how I'm supposed to wish vile comings for you, but don't. I should see you for the monster you chose to be, but don't. I need to forget you, the way you so easily forgot our family existed; but I can't. I still painfully remember every lie you spoke, as they scar my mind, and char every ounce of faith I placed in you.

I hate that you hold a monstrous warning and harness the power to educate an entire nation; yet can't muster the courage to speak up, tell the truth, and save many.

I hate how you altered their lives, then decided the two you dealt the most blows to would bare denouncement, scorn, and abandonment from you.

I hate the way you so easily, turned the helpless into the hopeless, while placing them by the wayside to take the awful glares, and judgmental stares, owed only to you. You threw them in the rubbish and didn't even pause for a glance at the kids you'd loved so dearly.

I hate that I know what you did, but I'm left as the cardboard cutout youd so gleefully pin a sin so foul on. I'm the donkey, and the evil you chose, is the tail. You'll continue to jab clumsily with haste, as long as your game of "pin the blame" doesn't get you canned, like the kids you trashed.

I hate that such a brave little man saw you as his favorite superhero; the strongest of all, yet you literally shook his world apart; killing all that was safe, calm, and loving; not even pausing to whisper the faintest sorry.

I hate how I can hear you demanding peace and quiet; knowing I'd give my life to hear a few, coos, or gurgles, or even cries from the one you decided sounded better silent.

I hate that we chose you to be our Superman; while you chose to be the meanest villain around. You're no superhero at all.