I Am That Broken Condom

I am that broken condom,
analyzed like a sign of the nearing apocalypse,
lying on the floor like a contaminated,
unfortunate mistake,
filled with dripping ejaculate
and the sinking feeling of sorrow.

I am that frantic panic,
the fear of disease,
the fear of the possibility of life yet again,
The perpetuation of thoughts so convoluted
that tears form and necks become weak,
the look in each other’s eyes
and then the blank stare at the floor.

I am that calendar studied,
the addition and subtraction of days and weeks and
maybe a whole month if luck is the bitch it is feared to be,
the red pen traveling over the paper with big X’s,
big crosses,
big questions and the sudden
loss of memory of when
the last blood and tissue came forth
in a grief that now is yearned for
so suddenly and desperately.

I am that pregnancy test,
the large gulps of water that
the flow of urine so many times surpasses
the flow of salty tears from eyes blurred and forced closed,
those boxes bought and the repetition that
maybe will bring a conflicting answer in the form of “no.”

I am that trip to the clinic,
the regret cramping in
a stomach already bulging,
the compelling consumption of rationality,
the sweaty palms,
the tears brought on by decision.

I am that bloody knife,
to cut the life out of the uterus where it is not welcome,
freeing the mind and body of responsibility and worry,
and the promise of continuance restored.

I am that disappointment in action,
the remorse and questions and grief
that come with the thoughts of
maybe and what might have been,
lying in bed slowly regressing
to a point in time where life was simple and finite and
guaranteed to flow like the period that has returned.