to heal.
It never heals.
[sound: scratching]
Noun: Abortion.
Etymology: I need to remember.
Etymology: I can't recall.
I really am confused.
Abortion or abortive.
Perhaps I can't recall because the adjective came first.
I am focusing on the noun.
A noun.
That noun.
~Is it important?~
~Does it alter the meaning?~
The termination: the termination of a pregnancy through the removal of a foetus or embryo.
~Do I need the etymology to continue with the narrative?~
You see.
I see the word abortion.
If I don'tblink.
If I stare out from my black box.
I see the word.
ABORTION.
Curved lines next to straight lines.
Written in the sand.
~Do you remember that I stayed the night?~
After you told me to have an abortion.
I stayed the night.
I smoked your joints.
And I drank your wine.
And we ate my round chocolate fudge cake.
Even though it was not my birthday.
You had the munchies.
You were eating for two.
[sound: a guttural laugh]
The chocolate layered the top of my mouth.
My dry dry mouth.
And then you picked the petals from my ten long-stemmed yellow roses.
You scattered and spread my yellow curled petals across your grubby floor.
He loves me.
~He loves me not.~
He loves me.
~He loves me not.~
He loves me.
~He loves me not.~
He loves me.
~He loves me not.~
He loves me.
~He loves me not.~
He loves me.
~He loves me not.~
He loves me.
~He loves me not.~
He loves me.
~He loves me not.~
He loves me.
~He loves me not.~
He loves me.
~He loves me not.~
[sound: sobbing]
~Do you remember our spending the night together?~
~Or that you entered me?~
That you tried to thrust the baby away.
You were hard.
You were too hard.
Your actions were vigorous.
Sharp.
Painful.
We did not talk about my being pregnant.
~Do you remember that we did not talk about my being pregnant?~
~How can you remember something that didn't exist?~
Your memory now exists without me in there.
I am a smear.
Wiped.
Not quite clean.
[sound: a guttural laugh]
You slept.
I didn't.
I couldn't.
~Do you remember waking in the morning?~
You looked at me.
And with your morning breath.
You told me, fuck off.
Your words, not mine.
You told me, don't contact me again until you've got rid of the baby.
You used the word rid.
It's a sharp word.
I dressed.
With tears and snot streaming down my face.
~Do you remember?~
I can see myself.
I can see a hunched me.
Sobbing.
Breathing sharp.
Not speaking.
Fumbling for my clothes within the darkness of your bedroom.
[sound: sobbing]
You were still in bed.
The
