By Lizzie Kelly
The doctor brings it up.
I have never asked for
a way out. He offers it
to me always.
Fists clenched and convulsing.
Dead, dying unborn. That
would not be unusual,
for a girl of your age.
The blood looks yellow,
as it hits the floor,
diluting from the
moment it leaves me.
It is a good sign,
that I am working.
Boiled over with corruption,
perfect cyst aching to be
popped. Fish eyes, my fish eggs
escaping the tank. A new
reflection in the mirror,
someone green, greasy and lank.
Find it hard to believe,
she built this all for you,
and knowing this, you have
left her disappointed.
The mirror shows me.
She is licking her
lips, running her tongue
over sharpened teeth.
It all comes out now;
it all comes out wrong.
