In the Wrong Bathroom

She said we're being patient with the process

and something in your ribs reorganized itself.

Not jealousy. Dread maybe.

Or the specific panic of a question

nobody asked you to answer yet.

You woke at 3 AM with it sitting on your chest.

In her bathroom you saw it in the trash—

the test, the two pink lines

like someone had drawn the answer

to a problem you haven't solved in yourself,

not even close,

not even once.

The question has been living in you

untouched as furniture.

You don't know if you want it.

You don't know if you're allowed to not know.

Her hands will be different soon.

Her body will decide for her.

But you're still here, looking at the ceiling,

undecided and breathing,

the wanting and not-wanting

taking up the same space

in the dark.