it's a clear day out
things are blue
and relatively warm
you walk
the six-and-a-half blocks
to your destination:
a squat, nondescript building
without a sign
and a fading address
an old woman smiles at you
as you pass on the sidewalk
you're a pretty girl, after all
you take the steps
two at a time
even though there's only four
the doorknob is cool to the touch
inside, the receptionist
is nonchalant about taking your name
you squirm on a vinyl-covered sofa
beside two other women who look
as relaxed as your breathing is not
they disappear
one after the other
through a pastel-blue door
led by their unfamiliar names
and a dishwater blonde,
a clipboard in her left hand
and white teeth
in a mouth that does not smile
your name is called
and it, too, is unfamiliar
beyond the door
lies a sea of curtains
and swishing lab coats
you're ushered away
disrobed and redressed
with the practised efficiency
of the blonde clipboard woman
she doesn't smile
until
"the Doctor will be in shortly."
here, she smiles
and it's smeared with sadness
you're a pretty girl, after all
everything is septic-white
and stinks of disinfectant
a stack of pamphlets on the table
offers up comforting words
and cheerfully approves your decision
you stare at a slogan
"It's Your Choice!"
until the room fades to black
and your eyes sting
and soon, the Doctor comes
two mother/matron nurses as reinforcements
in case you've changed your mind
they poke you,
prodding you into place
and trying to create the illusion
you're perfectly okay
if you were braver
the boy would be here
the fact he's no longer your boy
is irrelevant
but you're not brave
you're a child
and the nurse-mothers fuss over you
they hold your hands
smooth your hair
and tell you
you're doing fine
everything will be better tomorrow
you're a pretty girl, after all
the Doctor is more discerning
with dispersing sympathies
and instead makes inane smalltalk
you don't hear a word--
your eyes are closed too tight
for the briefest eternity
there is a coldness that seeps
into the pit of your belly
you suck in air
and forget to breathe
you wait
when you open your eyes again
you're already dressed
and nodding mechanically
as the Doctor rattles off directions
you don't know what time it is
but you find the receptionist all the same
she gives you a plastic bag
full of papers and important-looking
pieces of nothing
you smile in thanks
and it hurts
by the door sits a tiny thing
barely woman enough to have breasts
she catches your eye and recoils
a distance noticeable only to you
before dropping her head in her hands
and weeping
you open the door
and escape from her moment of realization
as you step off the bottom stair
a hundred eyes are upon you
smouldering with
disgust
revulsion
hatred
they follow you the whole walk home,
an acrid, burning trail hanging in the air
outside the sky is dark
as if mother nature knows
and is plotting revenge
the wind slices across your cheek
like a clean, cold blade
but you press on and on
biting your lip
and clutching your little bag
of plastic sincerities
the sidewalk public parts for you
and your confident strides
a boy calls out something as you pass
you're a pretty girl, after all
the key to your apartment
clicks sharply in your ears
you slip unnoticed
among the inanimate trappings
of your life:
empty chairs
at an empty table
you crawl into your empty bed
and stare up at the ceiling
for thirteen hours
sleep, too,
resents you now
and will not pay a visit
in the bathroom
you clutch the toilet
and heave
nauseated by the knowledge
that morning sickness will never come
you drift aimlessly
down your hollow hallway
turning from the mirrors as you pass
but the mirrors advance
and confront you with sharp corners
their refusal to lie claws at you
so you tear them from the walls
and shatter them,
seven total
sitting amongst the fragments
you finger one of those
god-damned pamphlets
you try to believe
the reassuring paragraphs
the guiltless font
the smiling face inside
you don't cry
you're a pretty girl, after all
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