Barely two weeks conceived

Her mother

Standing

Cold and alone

Afraid

On the street

A slip of paper in her hand

With the name of the clinic written on it

She tosses it aside

Strike One

Fourteen years old

She laughs

Sitting in the backseat

Behind her friends

The flash of light

And the deafening sound

Surrounded by twisted metal

Covered in blood

But not her own

Strike Two

Seventeen years

Scared and alone

Angry and confused

The painful caress

Of the razor

Against her wrist

Crimson life abandons her

Leaving her

Hollow and empty

Strike Three

Why did she swing?

She wasn’t yet out

But she did swing

With her eyes tightly closed

And now…

She has lost The Game