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