A Womb, A Plume, but no Room?

Brittle as the staleness
that festers in the breadbin,
my tears dried during the night,
pooled amidst the condiments and salad.
So the bloated kiddies learn by rote
whilst dear old husband collects the bacon.
He'll be home by dinnertime,
unless a quick detour...

So nobody was here to watch me miscarry
the large brown suitcase to the room.
whoops.
I guess i'm leaving.
"Your room?" You might ask...
"It's not a room of my own," I'd respond.
Make your own sandwiches.