Telling me I have no other choices.
That this is the only choice I have.
That this choice must be done immediately.
You tell me I can die if I don’t choose the “right” choice.
You are only looking out for me.
As if what I have inside does not matter.
But I have an expiration date.
I will die, but there’s something good still.
There’s something good to see.
When I picture it your way.
Everything goes black.
There is nothing.
Only death.

My sister said she saw you
not long after we broke up
she said
“She’s…not been doing so well”
And the way her pause felt
coming from someone who
is never lost for words
Told me everything I didn't want to know
about the shortcuts and the destinations they lead to
I know I have no right
To the answers of questions never asked
I just wish you had told me.
Wish you had said something.
I can understand why you didnt though.
How this must have ground your teeth down on the pavement,
As your tongue walked every excuse home you could think of.

I wonder how you first found out
if it was with a distaste for the bitter black coffee you loved
Or in a yearning for porridge again
honey sweetened and spiced by cinnamon
Oats rich on your grieving, no appetite tongue

I wonder if
When all was said and done
You starved yourself like you said you never would
To have your body wax concave
Instead of convex as if to reflect
The parabolic curve of pain pinched waist,
Hourglass carelessness
Answers to the equation of us.

I wonder if your resolve hit as hard as the realisation did,
Or if you anaesthetized yourself to the question,
The way you said you would never drink your pain away again.
And I wonder if had known sooner
if there would have been any room in that excuse for me too.
 
When you found, did you pat your stomach absentmindedly
Or did you just brush it aside?
Did you name it burden, or curse, or something to take care of, or did you not name it anything.
But simply called it goodbye?

If it had been a girl, I would call it serendipity
Its got a nice cadence to it
and I think that something
equal parts ****** up us
could grow into a name like that.
If a boy, then Bump, or Oops or Accident after his father and his ignorance

Had I the choice I wouldnt wish it anyone else

So I know I shouldn’t name possibilities just to grieve them,
But I only just found out the cost of shoebox coffins
And the unworn boots that fill them.
Maybe I am attributing too much weight to a collection of cells not much bigger than a fist
But I know the weight of that in my stomach,
So I can’t imagine how the absence of it felt in yours.

I do believe in choice,
And I won't pretend I have any idea
The choices you must have gone through
Nor will I compare asking only promises of me
To requiring 40 weeks of you
 
I just never got asked what my decision would have been
And I wish it would have mattered too

If you need to – I still want to talk
I have a cup of tea waiting
Grown cold from being 3 months too late
Just like we were.

I did not know if I should be
Happy
Or sad.
You were talking about an ultrasound, and that he told you to get an abortion.
You were 18 still in high school.
I have never seen you more broken,
Or distressed.
I wanted so bad to be there for you,
But
What do you say to someone when they had to give up their baby?
I didn’t know what you were feeling.
I don’t know what you were feeling.
All I know is that
The day you told me, I knew that I would fight for your happiness until forever ends.

Doctor Larch peers out the window,
Pulling aside brocaded curtains to hide
The grief that he will not show,
The rending emptiness he feels inside.

As his son Homer rides past the sunset,
Not knowing where he goes
But aspiring to see the wide world,
The ocean at Mount Desert,
Seeing wonder in the expanse
And worlds inside a circle of glass.

He has taken with him his heart,
A dark picture of frailty.
He finds unexpected work in an orchard,
Leisurely harvesting round, garnet jewels.
The nomads, dark and wary,
Ask him to read about death and stars.

There are rules for the workers.
And Homer finds that they apply
To no one, neither nomads or
Curious young men.
He sees in the errant father
The reflection of his own,
The man who made him good.
“You are my work of art”
He wrote.

Like an artist with his painting,
Who resists giving it away,
So Doctor Larch holds on to him
Hoping his adolescence ends
And he returns.
Finding peace at the last.

The lack of rules bring about a sea change,
Allowing forbidden love and pain.
He ventures out once more into the vacuum
Of conscience set free,
He devises his own rules about the womb
And how to help those in agony
But eventually…

With all the rules now open,
There is nothing left for him to do.
So he boards the migrant truck
Just as the pilot returns, broken.
He watches the struggle with a wheelchair
Sees his lover watch him with her yellow hair
Knows her future, years of sacrifice.
And he admits at last
That he has a purpose,

The train to St. Cloud huffs slowly away,
With Homer standing in the wet snow.
There is the old asylum,
The orphanage and home on the hill,
Almost black, with the sunset behind,
Homer begins the long climb.
He approaches slowly.

But then, a burst of laughter
And children from the door
Flock around him, dancing, shrieking,
Some holding him like an errant dog,
Who must be told to stay.
“Will you stay?” they ask.
“I think so,” he smiles in irony.
He is home at the last.

God made each person beautiful in their way.
Please let them be something one day.
Women, you destroy the life of someone to be.
You just took away somebody's destiny.
To pregnancy, don't think it's just a maybe.
Women, why can't you think about your baby?
Why abortion should you do?
What if your mother did that to you?
Beautiful people begin as cells.
They may not be pretty at first but oh well.
They grow to be pretty, clever, and smart.
Why can't people just have a heart?
Abortion is ******, and you should know that.
I don't care if you don't want to get fat.
Babies should be cherished and loved.
Don't you want that from God above?

people keep speaking
I've got no time for thinking,
they say you can't **** a baby,
but maybe, just maybe.
the thing is, this is, my reality,
so many words in my head I think I've lost my sanity,
at the end of the day, it's my choice to make,
you can think what you'd like but please just give me a break.