Illustrated by Chisom Onyishi 

the price of youth.jpg

The PRIce of youth

Blood clots the size of a baby's fist 

stain the carpet, block the toilets

and color the bedsheets red. 

The room smells of old food or dead fish

as you lay curled like a fetus. 

A glass of warm water is said to calm the womb 

or a hot water bottle pressed against your stomach. 

But it’s not until that cream white drop, 

half the size of your thumb 

slides down your naked thigh 

and onto the marble floor,

that you are suddenly sure

your child is dead

and you're free to go on living.