False Positive

It said yes—
two lines, faint but firm,
like the first time he said
“You’re safe with me.”

You sat on the lip of the tub,
knees hugged to ribs,
as if you could protect
what hadn’t formed yet
from the future.

Maybe it was the third time
he said “just trust me”
or the first time
you wanted to believe it.

When you told him,
he grinned—
not joy,
but that “damn, that’s wild” grin
men wear
when they’re already slipping
out the side door
of responsibility.

He said,
“Whatever you decide…”
and called that love.
You heard a clock start ticking
in a language only your body speaks.

Weeks passed.
You named a feeling
you’d never felt
and folded a future
into the corners of your breath.
You watched a heartbeat
blink on a black screen
like a promise
it was too early to make.

Then the blood came—
hot, heavy, wrong.
The toilet bowl became
a confession.
You clutched the sink
like it owed you
a reason.

And him?
He sent a meme
that same night.
Didn’t ask.
Didn’t show.
Didn’t stay.

False positive:
not just the test,
but the man.
The dream.
The “maybe we could…”
that never could.

You mothered the grief
he gave you.
Buried it
in silence
so loud
it still cries sometimes
when you see baby shoes
in shop windows
or hear a song
he once sent
with no meaning.

You tell yourself
“It’s fine. It’s nothing.
It wasn’t real yet.”
But your body knows
what almost was.

And your heart—
your poor, wide-open heart—
still watches that second line
in your mind
like maybe
this time
he’ll stay
for the result.