I apologize for ruining your life.
You should have worn a condom.
Should have guilted her into an abortion.
You could have done it yourself
if you didn’t have the money:
heated an old wire hanger
with your trusty Zippo
and rummaged it around inside,
like you were trying to unlock her car door,
the keys a jingling gag in her mouth,
an ignition switch your fist couldn't fix.
You could have waited for that baby bump,
then punched her in the stomach,
black out drunk on the Beast
just so you could blame it on the alcohol
like you do everything else,
or you could have pushed her
down a few flights of stairs
hoping the fall didn’t break
her slim bird’s neck,
claiming it was an accident
caused by slippery cement
or a panic attack from the fear
of future responsibility.
If the thought of murder and violence
makes you squeamish,
you should have just waited until I was born,
delivered me yourself in the back of the car
where you first showed her your dick,
put me in a garbage bag
and dropped me into the river,
listening to my infant screams
disappear into bubbles,
it would be no different than how
your mother used to put baby kittens
in bread sacks, tying them to tree limbs
for her husband to shoot
with his double-barreled shotgun,
better than having another mouth to feed.
Jay Sizemore writes poems. Occasionally, he edits them. The rest of the time, he sleeps off the hangover. Most of these events happen in Nashville, TN.