New Mother Haikus

(cue delicate bongo drumming)

I have tangled hair.
And knockoff bags beneath
Mascara-less eyes.

My toast: it is burnt.
Curse you, big toaster oven.
Leave my small counter.

Your little breathing
used to click, a notch, a tap.
Now the click is gone.

I know, I know! A steady diet of Blue Bell ice cream and leftover tacos, coupled with extreme sleep deprivation, produces quite the poetic muse in me.