My mother was thirty-seven when she miscarried.
When my potential brothers
left, when my eleven year old sister found her on the kitchen floor
in a pool of her own blood, hair splayed.
When the paramedics carried her away
in a box of blinking lights
and blaring beeps.
I am fourteen, waking up in a pool of my own.
It is a monthly ritual:
Where I beg clothes, dry and unstained from my grandmother.
Where I run the washing machine at three-fucking-thirty-AM.
I will live this story on repeat for years,
count the months in sacrificed underwear,
tampon wrappers, and ibuprofen.
My best friend is twenty-two.
She thinks of babies in numbers.
She does the math on the potentiality,
on the blood and tears, the days and work
that would need to be spent first- to even arrive at someday.
She tries to reconcile it, like she reconciles her taxes
but the price is too steep. It always has been.
The princess is sixteen,
she pricks her finger on a spindle.
A single drop of blood falls,
spatters onto the cold wooden floor.
She sleeps for a hundred years, for now.
I do not blame her.