My Lie

When the fetal need

for reassuring care

cries, I abort,

assuming you don’t want

all the inconvenience

of complex feelings;

they’re mine to deal with

alone,

in silent pain.

Don’t ask for details;

you don’t really want them.

They just make you pout

so that everything becomes about

you and how hurt you are

that I hurt,

as though it’s some kind

of fertile judgment.

So it’s just too much trouble

to speak my truth,

for I only end up 

having to take care of your child

while my aborted child

lies at our feet neglected,

abandoned, dying.

So off I go for a little while.

I’ll be back soon

with a plastered chipper smile

and a high-pitched

desperate lilt telling you 

everything’s fine.

I’ve taken care of it.