At what point did my life end?
Was it when he slipped the little white pill in my gin and tonic?
Or was it when he wrapped his arms around me, as he told the bartender he was just going to take me home?
Was it when he placed me, unconscious, in the backseat of his car, as he hopped in the driver seat with only one goal in mind?
Or did it end the next morning, when I woke up bare, in a field, alone?
Was it three weeks later when that second line showed up on the test?
Or later that night, when I took a hanger and shoved it inside me?
When all that blood came rushing out?
No, it only almost did.
Did it end when I chased those prescription pills with that vodka?
Or was it two months later, when my teacher told me I couldn’t attend classes anymore because the thing inside me was starting to show?
Was it when my friends stopped talking to me?
Was it all those times people would stop and ask me questions about it?
Questions that most people would be proud to answer.
Or was it when my dad finally reached his breaking point and left my mom and me alone Cause he couldn’t bear to have a “slut” as a daughter anymore?
No, these were only contributing to the end point.
It ended when I looked into the eyes of this baby and was reminded of the white pill slipped into my drink, of the unconsciousness, of the next day.
It ended when I was reminded that this baby’s life was more important than mine.
It ended later that evening when I finally pulled the trigger.
But congratulations, you brought another life into this world.
But you ended mine.