No Biggy

I’m going to have an abortion on Thursday,

This thing inside me now is nothing more than a momentary craving for butterscotch and a minor dint in the NHS budget,

It might end up as biological waste,

An exhibit for medical students,

I don’t know

It won’t matter

All that matters is that it’s going to be gotten rid of

The waiting room will be pleasant enough, nothing more than a normal doctors’ surgery

Same battered out chairs and old copies of gossip magazines

Then I’ll be called in, and this baby will go bye-bye

The doctor will be nice and efficient - keep it short and sweet

It’s just like flushing a toilet or having your insides hoovered

It’s nothing major

As far as I or anyone else is concerned, this baby doesn’t exist.

Nobody needs to know or worry about it,

As soon as Thursday rolls around it’ll be gone forever.

For now it’s just the occasional vomit splatter on the porcelain,

Achy breasts,

A few missed periods,

It’s a bit of weight gain,

It’s no big deal

There’s no question about getting rid of it, of course

Nobody wants it, nobody needs it

It’s just a clump of cells

It’s not a beautiful miracle

It’s a messy accident.

It’s an accident.