Skylar Clark

Written November 8, 2024 at 1:00am—an hour after the election results.

I always dreamed of having children.

Two boys. Two girls.
That dream, that vision,

it’s been with me as long as I can remember.
A life of love & chaos,

laughter echoing through the halls

of a big house on open land.

Dogs running wild, playing with the kids.
Their only worry?

What’s for dinner?

Which movie will we watch tonight?

I dreamed of a future where love was enough,

where life unfolded as it should,

and where I got to decide what happened next.
Funny how life works out.

A little about me:

In 2002, I was born in Texas—

a place where a woman’s body

has never been hers.
And my childhood was stolen,

abused by the very people

who were supposed to protect me.
The first time I learned

I was nothing but an object.

In 2006, I was adopted,

saved from the nightmare,

finally safe in my own skin.
In 2022, Roe v. Wade was overturned—

My choice was now

a memory.

A basic right—

—stripped away.
My body, no longer mine.

A feeling I am all too familiar with.

So in 2022, I dared to ask—

Can I have children?
Something I wanted more than anything.
And in 2022, I learned—

If I ever got pregnant,

the baby might not survive.

And if it didn’t,

the doctors can do nothing

but watch me bleed

and pray I make it out alive.

In 2024, a 23-count felon

runs against a former Attorney General

for president.
It sounds like the start of a joke, right?

But no—this is the hell we’re living in.

74 million Americans voted him in—

and their message?
Clear.

Loud.

You don’t matter.
Your body is nothing.

It’s a tool, a machine.

Something to use, something to discard.

In 2024, I grieve.
Grieve the home I’ll never own.

The children I’ll never bear.

The life I dreamed of,

ripped from me,

before I even had a chance.

In 2024, my dreams were crushed underfoot,

shattered,

trampled into the dirt.
I am nothing but property to you—

Just another thing to control,

To take,

To use,

Until there’s nothing left.

This isn’t just about those who

don’t want children.
This is about the countless women

whose lives will be stolen,

whose futures will be erased—
because of the choices you made.
Because of your votes.

Your hatred.

Your control.
You. Chose. This.
You chose to take our rights.
You chose to silence our voices.
You chose to let men—
—men
decide what happens to our bodies.

You voted for this cruelty.
For the suffering.
For the deaths of women
who will never get the choice you took from them.
You wanted this.
You chose this.
And now you can’t hide.

Don’t look away from the blood you spilled.
Don’t pretend you didn’t choose
to let women die.

Because you did.
You. Chose. This.

You don’t get to wash your hands clean.
You don’t get to ignore the screams,

the pain,
the death.

You decided we were nothing.
You decided our bodies were your choice—
and now,
you will live with that decision.
You will carry the weight of every life lost,
every woman who dies,
every future that ends,
because of the vote you cast.

We will never forgive.
And we will never forget
the blood
that is on your hands.

Skylar Clark is a 23-year-old writer and animal welfare advocate from East Texas. A survivor and storyteller, she uses her voice to illuminate the intersections of personal trauma and political injustice. Skylar works in animal rescue and is a passionate activist for stronger animal protection laws across the South, often saying she’s “a voice for the voiceless”—both human and animal. Her writing is intimate, urgent, and unafraid, rooted in lived experience and the fight for autonomy, safety, and change.

This poem appeared in Record of Dissent: Poems of Protest in an Authoritarian Age — Summer 2025, published by The Chaos Section Poetry Project. We’ll be featuring each poem from the collection individually in the weeks ahead. You can read the full collection or download a free PDF of the chapbook here.