So, this is just something I wrote up quick, not really sure why. I'm generally not that much for poetry, and I'm definitely not that great at it, so any advice would be lovely.
small girl, little legs,
big eyes tearing,
wrapped in a wool shawl
owned by her mother.
walks to the clinic,
a journey too long for
a small girl to take,
a journey for an adult not a
child, which she’s nothing more.
.......She takes the journey alone.
inside, the bright lights and
white tiles and
brilliant white smocks of the
nurses that kill,
blind her dilated eyes.
she sits in the corner
with too many others
who cast hypocritical glares.
.......How do so many go wrong?
a cheery, homicidal
nurse approaches the small girl
and asks her how far along
her world’s end is.
“six weeks” is the right answer
but too wrong for her
as she shudders and wonders aloud:
“will anyone have to know?”
.......“We can keep this confidential.”
“how much?” is the wrong question
that brings a wrong answer;
“$500” is too much to pay
without help.
“do you have parents, relatives,
a boyfriend who can help?”
a killer nurse would think there’s a yes in there
but there’s not.
the small girl nods her head just
to seem in control.
.......She walks out more alone than she came.
does she tell them?
does she not?
where can she get the money?
she could get a job, but that’s not quick enough;
she might start to show, or worse
even, she might run out of time and be
stuck with the child.
.......She can’t possibly raise something real.
she calls Daniel first - the easiest to tell,
but also the hardest at once.
if he leaves her, she crumbles,
if he doesn’t, she falls;
here, all the answers are wrong.
one ring, two ring, answering machine;
she doesn’t leave a message.
.......All that’s left to do is go home.
too-perfect sister and parents at the table
eating their prissy little meat loaf.
they stare as she enters, ask where
she’s been and why she won’t look them in the eye.
she wants her room, solitary confinement,
but she’s put off the inevitable too long.
“mom, dad, sister I hate,
there’s something you ought to know.
.......“I’m pregnant.”
mom starts to bawl.
dad starts to yell.
her sister asks if she’s being sent away;
“can I have your room?”
the rest of the night’s a blur of pandemonium,
and the outcome is blurry as well.
sister’s sent out of the room;
mother and father need to talk to small girl.
.......“What son of bitch is the father?”
the small girl doesn’t tell, just waits in the
background for the parents to mellow;
they never do.
the next morning she wakes up with mascara
on her chin and eyeliner on her cheeks.
parents decide to lend the $500, but
“you’re paying us back”;
only doing it to hide the humiliation.
.......Reputation exceeds family obligation.
once again, the small girls walks to the
killer-nurse clinic, tears in her big eyes,
wrapped in a mangy old parka.
this time she’s not alone, but there’s no one to hold
as she's blinded and frightened and accused wordlessly.
she almost preferred it before, without options,
because at least she was perfect moments longer,
in her family’s eyes.
now their eyes are chilly and embarrassed and
glass, and they don’t care about her or her grades
or her job or her pristine purple room.
.......Her father refuses to hold her shaking hand.
and it kills her.
