the bottle of vodka, half-empty now,
stares at her from the bedpost,
covered in vomit and tears
she closes her eyes,
and as the world revolves
she shakes her head to block the sounds
of the baby’s cries she’ll never hear,
sees her child ten years old,
immersed in the life it will never lead:
perhaps a little girl with sky-blue eyes,
pink ribbons in her hair,
and devotion in her heart...
or maybe a boy,
with sprinkles of freckles,
tossing his head back and laughing,
free of worries and fear
she’s mad at herself
and she’s mad at the world
and at him, who did this to her,
who called her a murderer for her choice,
who said he’d help her through,
but has since changed his mind
knowing she can’t change hers
eight days until the clinic appointment
and the end of the life she had no intention of beginning,
the conclusion of her innocence,
the conception of sorrow and unending pain
they say it’s easy,
the Bible-thumpers who justify their hatred
with verses from God’s love...
but they can’t see her now,
with bloodshot eyes
and spinning thoughts
wondering if she’ll go to Hell
for what she has to do
she says goodbye tonight,
whispering a bitter greeting
to the criticism of all those who will scorn her
when they hear what she has done,
who will never understand
she doesn’t have a choice
