That was the next thing
she hated: the bleed,
the mess, the inconvenience.

And that also told her that,
for this month at least,
she’d ****** up and would
not be a mother. And having
got that good looking guy
that night, and she being at,
what she thought, was the
right moment. Time was slowly
running out. Tick tock of her
body clock. All that *** over
all those years (often making
it impossible to conceive) she
had decided at last that she
wanted a baby, wanted a small
part of herself to live on in another,
she wanted to be a mother.

Looking back she saw those
long passages of time where
all she wanted was a good lay,
a good looking guy who could
perform the act and bring her
to the moment of explosion
without all the I love you kind
of stuff or emotion. Now she
had aged, the body not quite
as it was, the lines beginning to
show, the bones less supple, and
the energy on a different level.

And as that young punk had said
after the office party lay, not bad,
we sure got to one another, but
you’re old enough, lady, to be
my mother. That had brought it
home to her, the time going,
The body beginning to fall apart.

Little less chance now to get a guy
or break his heart. Still there was
the monthly bleed. That meant
something surely, in her hope to
her new found end. Not this month
though; that was it, another wasted
****. Those young girls, she thought,
watching them pass, have no idea
how little time they have, I wish them
well, I wish them love, I wish them luck.