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. 

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