A one-year-old
lives in my subconscious.

Most of the time,
she’s idly rolling
a glittery gold bouncy ball
back and forth between her hands,
hardly paying attention to me
except for once a year
when I pay someone
to tell me that all my parts
are in working order.

On that day, she looks at me
like she’s expecting something —
more bad news, more needles,
more imbalance.

On that day, I look at her
and wait for someone to tell me
she isn’t there.
That no child is or will be.

And then that one-year-old and I —
we’ll hold each other and cry.



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3 responses to “Lupron

  1. I am now going to leave my desk so that I can sob in semi-private in the restroom. Jesus.

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