Waiting

The pink and white stick is faced down

on the off-white toilet seat

and I stay far away.

It is a ticking bomb, I wait for its explosion.

As I touch my stomach,

I think of her becoming

and contorting in my body

under my skin

for nine months

and I am sick,

because I am to become the world

for her

when I am yet to see it all

for myself,

but perhaps there is no right time

and she will mould my mind

into one softer

and braver,

but will my poison drip through

our shared bloody tube

feeding her

anger and loneliness

and tell me,

how long can I hold the iron shield

to deflect the bullets,

how much of her can I control and have

before she is hers forever.

My hand rises from my abdomen.

I go to turn the stick.

I no longer feel sick.