Writers write their reality into being. My veracity is devastating

telling of tragedy (maybe I can write myself happy), no saviors or climax

that doesn’t end in a casket or straitjacket or terminated pregnancy.

Girl in the bathroom asks me for a tampon.

I think I have one

somewhere.

Fish around my backpack,

trying to look young when I trudge through campus

to catch the bus. I check out the Frisbee players,

cover my bags with sunglasses,

cover my arms with denim sleeves,

cover my tracks with torn contraception.

I’m pregnant 

and my first thought is

get rid of it. I know what five percent chance means

and the joke’s on me. 

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