From the girl on the trolley you keep looking at:

Did you ever stop to think that I feel pain too?
That I notice the people who stare straight at me
and at the same time avoid my glance
when I enter the car of a train, because they
think I have some sort of disease that I could
pass on to their daughter. Or how those days
on the trolley pushing my stroller, not asking
for pity, or your money, or your eyes to bore
into my back, I walk past, a story untold.

But you think that you can tell my story
for me. Right? But that’s not the way things are.
Because if you looked at me before, you would
think that I was perfect, that I didn’t carry a stigma
in my stomach, the perfect little thing that made me
imperfect. That I was normal, just a teenager
going to school on a Tuesday morning, not to
Planned Parenthood for some sort of test
that would confirm what I already knew.

You would look at my face and have the impression
or just make yourself believe that the expression
there was one of frustration over school or something
not that tears were welling up because that morning
my mom had told me to get out of the house. Anyway,
who are you to judge? Because you’re no better than me
and I’m no better than you, so I guess we’re all the same
and I’m not gonna give your daughter some disease,
so could you please move over so I could take a seat?