I thought of when my 20-year-old self
dated the wrong man, and my period was
late, but then came with a vengeance,
a gush of gore with wrenching cramps
as though my body was suddenly opposed
to living, was turning itself inside out.

I thought of how we’d thrown my flimsy
campus-issued mattress on the floor
because he was taller than it was long,
how I’d protested when he’d refused to use
a condom. “Just this once,” he’d insisted.
“Besides, it’s your ‘safe time,’” as if

he knew anything about safety, or my body,
as though he did anything just once.
He’d disregarded my tears and took
what he wanted. Weeks later, while keeling
on the toilet, I’d considered that perhaps,
nestled among the clumps and clots,

was a clutch of cells that could have been
a person, could have tethered me to him
forever had biology been more successful
just that once. I thought of feeling
monumentally grateful that I never had
to decide. But I could have. Would have.