Orphan

Your baby dies unborn. Unloved. Fatherless. It’s OK because its mother never really wanted it anyways. “We’ll get through this together,” your boyfriend tells you. You’re not even sure if it was his to begin with. It doesn’t matter. It's been two weeks since you’ve seen him. It’s Valentine’s Day. You’re alone.

Tell yourself you’re going to have a glass of wine. Watch Disney movies with the cat. Look up to find the bottle empty. Stumble to the kitchen for blueberry vodka. Text a stranger. No, not a stranger, your best friend’s roommate. Make a pact. I won’t tell if you won’t. Are you home alone?

Spill Sriracha on your bedroom carpet till it soaks in like a blood stain. Don’t try to clean up your mess. The damage is already done.

Take a shower to stay awake. It’s 1 AM and you’re still waiting for something, anything to happen. Think about baptism. Wonder aloud if you can drown while standing up. Wipe the soap out of your eyes. Think about your mother combing your damp hair before bed. Think of her rubbing your closed eyes with her fingertips and promising only good dreams as if it were a magic spell. You’ve always had terrible nightmares. You don’t anymore.

Pop a ZzzQuil so that you can pass out without dreaming. Without thinking, when this is all over.

Let your friend’s roommate in the front door. Realize you actually have nothing to say to this person, that you’ve never had a conversation. Ask if they want to watch Netflix. Agree on That 70s Show.

The boy has a gap between his two front teeth. You mentally debate whether you find this appealing or not while your tongue plays behind the back of them. Let him in your shirt, in your pants, up under your skin. Let him pull your hair back like he’s trying to scalp you.

Demand that he wear a condom because you’ve had a scare and you’re not going back there again.

“What kind of scare?” he’ll ask. You’re hoping he hasn’t noticed the goodie bag from Planned Parenthood that’s sitting on your dresser. The bag with the brochure, with the helpline. Call if you have any questions. Call if you are upset. You are angry about everything. You question everything. You call no one.

“I don’t really wanna talk about it,” you tell him. And you don’t.

You’ll finish watching the episode, your naked thighs draped over his lap. You’ll let him go home after that. You don’t really want him there anyways. He won’t come over again.

Dream that your baby lived. That she got adopted. That she is sixteen and you meet her on a train, but neither of you can recognize the other. That you pass each other like strangers.

Your boyfriend will wake you up in the morning with a “Good Morning Beautiful” text. You don’t feel beautiful.

Drive to his house with the intention of breaking up with him. He’ll clasp a silver necklace around your throat that reads “I love you to the moon and back.” A belated Valentine’s Day present. Say that you love him too. You tell yourself never again. You tell yourself this is where you belong. You fuck through a Hangover movie marathon. You both joke about how your father will make fun of your boyfriend for being a computer nerd at your wedding. Your boyfriend will press an iced cold Twisted Tea can to your bare breast just to hear you scream.

Try to fall asleep, each of you facing different walls. Wait for him to start snoring. Go outside and smoke a Marlboro red in a snow bank. Look up at a smile of a moon in a crisp mean winter sky. Wonder about how far the moon is from where you’re standing. Ask yourself if it’s possible to love someone that much, let alone double that. Tell yourself that you are exactly where you are supposed to be. That everything happens for a reason. That any of it means anything at all.

Hear the door open behind you. Let your boyfriend wrap a blanket around your shaking shoulders. Let him lead you back to bed. Pop a ZzzQuil.

Dream that your baby is sitting on the moon like the child from the Dreamworks logo. She’s crying, she needs you. You run until you can feel muscles snapping in your legs like overworked fishing lines. You stretch your arms out as far as they will go until you can hear joints popping loose from their sockets. You jump as high as you can until your heels ache from the impact of your soles hitting the frozen ground again and again like pistons going nowhere. No matter what you do, no matter how you tear yourself apart, you can’t reach her. You wonder how it’s possible to love something this much.