i remember the first night I
took a pregnancy test.
the minutes that marked
an eternity, the paranoia
of wondering if this was
punishment for all the ways
i'd harmed my body,
the ways i'd forgotten god.
i was alone in a church
that practically raised me.
the statues looked away,
even the silence refused
to befriend me.
i clung to the pamphlets
that promised nothing but
regret, and a sadness
too deep to climb out of,
convinced i would die
of guilt, by my own hand
or by a retributive god.
i never became pregnant,
never had to make an
appointment and be escorted
inside for my safety, while
makeshift tents across the road
catered to ordinary people who
thought they were martyrs -
megaphones of pity and
white crosses for the
nonexistent deaths.
i dreamed that they
would follow me home,
taping bloody photos
on each windowsill,
that they'd go to bed with
my name tucked between
their teeth, assuming
we were all lost souls
like our lives would
forever be a conflict
because of a medical
procedure concerning a
fetus and nobody's business.
i used to be one of them,
rosary beads in pockets
of school uniforms,
lining up across the clinic
to chant and march and pray.
and it's taken years
to exorcise the shame
from my soul,
though it never
belonged there
in the first place.
