| *loolaville _poetry | |||||
| Room 10 The heavy velcro patch around my arm tugs as I walk further into the hallway. My foot props open the havy, brown door and my gown hangs untied like a sheet from my shoulder revealing soft, pale skin. The noise of machines mingles with voices filling the hallway - echoing, whirring, buzzing; softly a part of it all- barely noticeable, so ordinary. The ball of my stocking cap swings back and forth as my head turns, eyes wet looking up and down the hallway. The nurses stand lazily ignoring my gaze and I consider waving my arms- whatever it might take to avoid feeling like a ghost; like a ghost with my body unmoving on the bed behind me. What isn't monitored and tested right now lies in the darkness of my breast, the hollow aching I am tripping over and falling into again and again. It's gripping me, choking me now. Then suddenly a face is in front of me asking me if I need help. "I want my people" are the words leaving my mouth. "What's your name?" My wrists look soft, slender, and the plastic bracelet is real enough as I run my fingers over it. "Leah..." The face leaves and I walk back into my room where the bp monitor begins again, the patch encircling my arm tighter and tighter like a robot programmed to devour me. I wonder what it is to die everyday over and over again connected to machines like these. I lie down on the soft, white sheets expecting to find hope in the blood stirring and coursing through my veins, even down to cold toes beneath thick, black socks. I stare at the walls where occasional bright red covers fixtures and I am fascinated in between loneliness and the despair that grips me. Several breaths, breathing into silence then the heavy, brown door opens. And the sight of bright eyes and warm smiles rescues me from my disease. |
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