The Secret Result
'No woman wants an abortion like she wants an ice cream cone or a Porsche. She wants an abortion like an animal caught in a trap wants to gnaw off its own leg.' — Frederica Mathewes-Green
Hidden in t-shirts
twice my size,
shoes too tight
to walk in,
and songs that no longer
feel the same.
I hold the secret
result in my pink
book-bag against
breasts that are
tender and sore.
I ask God do you exist
Like magical garden only
the insane can see?
The metaphor
for my insanity is
the love I no longer see.
A secret I taste on
my tongue, I cannot escape.
I hold
my stomach in disgrace
as the thought is
a chocolate spear to
my ivory heart.
I wait for morning
to come like white doves
sitting on my windowsill
for help.
Watching for the sun
to shiner brighter than
the moon.
Waterfalls of yellow
tea with a scent of lemon
and a piece of vibrance
rush beneath me.
I'm afraid for morning
to return to me
in the form of blue
test I cannot escape.
A plus for yes and a circle
for no in the pit of my gut,
burning me from the inside
in.
I throw up my food as
baby birds pick at the
remains of a childhood
that never had chance
to begin.
Nausea in the pit
of my throat like
a cry without a home
to go.
A cage with a broken
heart, scared soul
and tired breasts
feeling heavier
as the rain continues
to fall.
Soreness on a chest,
a feeling in flame
I cannot rinse out...
I'm afraid of the secret
result hidden I don't want
to see but I take it to heart
as I wait for morning
to appear.
My secret result
will reveal itself
to me in a cup of
lemonade.
I tear up as tomorrow
approaches...I pray to God
and ask...Do you exist?
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