| *loolaville _poetry | |||||
| 15 Minutes 15 minutes pass and another nurse enters after a soft knock at the door. She offers to bring back a warm blanket at the sight of my purple lips and nipples showing through my gown. My legs swing involuntarily off the side of the bed as she selects my right middle finger and wipes it with a cotton swab. My eyes make contact with nothing in particular as she pierces the tip and draws my blood. BP is a little low, she chirps as she leaves me holding my hand, pressing the cotton hard against the prick on my finger. I do this with great care, although no bright red blood leaves the wound. 15 minutes pass and my mind begins racing into familiar territory where faces flash and old thoughts resurrect themselves, and the madness of my mind turns every bit of decency into distortion. I am thinking the pain is too great; the pain of it all, emotional or physical. 15 minutes pass and I lie down on my back, the cotton now balled up in the grip of my fingers, the large green digits on the monitor above me have changed once again, and I bite my lower lip as the tears dry on my cheeks. The nurse has yet to return with a warm blanket. |
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| back | 
it makes me "me." |
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