he traces words like “clouds” and “blackberry” on my thigh
while we talk about abortion, whiskey softening wooden throats.
“In Russia, they do not use condoms, and there is no birth control.
The only option is abortion. Seems better to me. a pill only
when you really need it.”
what I do not say:
the things you keep beneath your ribcage are there always.
you are cracked earth. you do not sprout.
“I think some people make it out to be a bigger deal than it is.
It’s not like you really feel anything. It’s all a cultural thing.”
what my insides do once you leave them is not a cultural thing.
you say you are conserving latex, saving it for gloves and rubber bands.
tell me, have you felt death inside you?