Seventeen years old;
I am afraid to go home and they know.
Small blue cross, white stick, pale scent of piss,
hidden under coffee grounds
in the bin under the sink.
Two months in, afraid of the egg
in my womb. Still thought it was a girl.
still named it. Still stroked my flat stomach
as the shower turned lukewarm.
Still played Cat Stevens with an earbud
against my belly. Still wrote poems for it.
Knew it shouldn’t be mine, knew
it would have to be taken out like an aztec heart,
held towards the sun-god, torn from my blue cord.
But september came first, burning red,
and brought a bed of blood;
leaving me to lock my bedroom door,
pouring peroxide over the mattress,
washing new life from my skin
and my lilac nightgown,
throwing the clotting sheets away
in the neighbor’s trash.