The thing growing in her
She did not understand
She watched the pregnant women
In the waiting room
She wanted to push them over
The window, the stairs
Each and everyone of them, Wiping out
That conceit from their face
That's some reason to be happy about
Instead of joy
Its tiny hands clawed at her, Twisting
Cold sweat, she started on her bed
She looked at the slump next to her, Dead
To her panting and growing fear, Lost
In his smug bliss of rubber of holes
She remembered staring at the surgical lights
Wide open eyes
The blinding lights did not hurt
as much as
When they emptied her
She broke into a run on her way out
Shivered despite the warm sunrays
She threw up nausea on the street
A nausea at her different colour
At not being a hero
At him who thinks it's her problem, not his
Nausea, she tattooed on her skin
She will never be rid of
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