The Morning After

The woman at the desk in her pristine white
makes me feel like a mangy, overheated cat,
a trollop, a slut. She smiles icily
between calling forth these anxious women,
and I await my turn, with my dirty knickers:
the visible stains of last night’s mistake.

I mistook his smile for something other,
for childhood fairytales, vague promises
and dreams I can put no name on,
but it all ended up in sad drunken grunting
and the empty feeling of empty nothing.

I wished him away and held his head,
my breast offering comfort
in the ritual abuse of motherhood,
propping up his quizzical ego, saying
and trying to believe, it was so good,
it was so good.

And hating myself in this waiting room,
this morning after, hating myself
for the lies and foolish hopes,
the fear of babies and disease.
I deserve this, oh I deserve this:
the metal clamps, the indifference,
the six wee pills
and the twenty four hours
of nausea, ugliness
and self-inflicted violence.