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Two Lined Stick

September 26, 2017

Five years ago
I constructed a fake library card
out of poorly-cut cardboard,
and cheap laminate
from the cover of my
two-inch binder.

I remember when
I took three hundred from my drawer,
a gift for a “shopping spree”
with light-hearted friends
I kept in the dark.
 

The other two hundred
came from his parents,
even though they knew
he didn’t need a new computer.

I remember when my mother banged her fist
against our peeled bathroom door
that my body held shut,
after she saw the box
with the two-lined stick
hidden in my blue leather purse.

I knew she would check the shampoo bottles,
so I flattened it between my thighs.

The night we stayed up
to catch the six AM train
my mother told me
insurance would cover it.

I denied.
I did not need a “procedure” 
for my only Saturday plan
was to go on a shopping spree
with my virgin friends.

Four round trips,
fourteen years young.

I remember the morning I waited with Sarah,
who didn’t believe in what I was doing.
Five years later,
I am still too afraid to ask
if her beliefs have changed.

I remember the pale blue room
crammed with somber women
who had no choice
but to listen to the
scene selection screen
of a two-star movie.

They shuffled out
one by one
in some cruel order
until I was alone.

“I want my mom,” I cried,
as they pushed foreign fluid through my veins
to lower my heart rate.

And I remember waking up
choking on saltines
they shoved down my throat,
it was some time of day.

I remember the sweet blood
that proved it was finally over,
the sweet blood
that allowed me to
catch-up on my homework.

 

 


 

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