She hated herself for not doing the research.
She hated him for not telling her the risk.
He knew,
Although she did not,
That her pills were only 98% effective at best
And that to be safe it was suggested that
Other methods be used
In addition.
But they weren’t.
And now – where was he?
States away – and she all alone
Waiting, trembling, hating
That she saw nothing on her underwear.
Yet.
She kept telling herself – yet.
She saw nothing on her underwear
Yet.
And she wore sweatpants and sat in her room all alone
So that every five minutes she could
Rise on weak legs
Grip the elastic of her sweatpants with shaking fingers
And pull it down in one swift motion
To see if the pristine white of the little liner she had put in her underwear
Was at all yet marred by the
Until now
Dreaded sight of blood.
She was driving herself insane with
The constant checks
And she tried to keep reminding herself that 98% was a favorable percentage
For her.
But she knew all too well
That statistics mean nothing to the individual
She would either be empty
Or not.
She hoped she was empty
She wished she was empty
She prayed she was empty
She pleaded she was empty
Oh, if only she were empty.