Planned Parenthood

what is this what

is happening, the girl screamed 

at me as I carried her to my car.

I had found her in the women's bathroom

at Burger King, knocking on the 

door after I heard crying inside,

and then went to find her 

on the floor, naked from the

waist down, blood down her legs,

sobbing. Are you ok, what is wrong?

She shook her head and I knelt

beside her in her blood. Can you walk?

No.

Her pants were balled up in the corner,

I grabbed them and said, put your arms

around my neck, and I lifted her into

a bridal carry.

What's your name? Riley.

How old are you? Fifteen.

A year younger than I was; I carried

her through the Burger King, yelling

out for someone to call 911, trying

to cover her lower body with a

balled up pair of bloody jeans.

I lay her down in the backseat of my car, 

crying just as much as she was

and drove seven city block

to County General, asking

do you want me to call your mom?

Please no no don't call her, through sobs.

Is there anyone I can call?

Please just get me to the hospital.

They take her on a stretcher at the wide doors

and wheel her away; an older nurse

asks if I am the father. No. I don't even know her.

Eventually, the police come and talk to me.

My clothes are stuck to my skin, caked in her blood.

I waited all night in the hospital until ten a.m.

when my brother came to take me home. I 

never saw her again, the girl who miscarried

a son who I will always, somehow, think of

as my son.