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bailey-bPoems
my legs scrape together. like the ears of an elephant they slap against each other against the cool vinyl seat they have chained me into with a medical observance. i squirm for comfort for completion for complacency but all i feel is the rustle of fabric. the woman stares, her eyes caring but cold unblinking mirroring a skeleton back at me. the doctor (what number, i cannot remember; there have been many nameless faceless coats trying to help) the doctor looks deep deep down his eyes clocks sundials scoreboards ticking away the hours the ninety-three pounds i have left on this earth. the air compresses. a whale in a bottle, i rip the chain into squares and run run run down the street. i am fine. i am invincible. a crack trips me up. the world seethes red. a stranger's hand rights me. His eyes are kind. and for the umpteenth time, someone asks me. and for the umpteenth time, i feel my mouth shaping the word so empty and sterile habitually. "not--" but then i stop. and words come up like my offering after meals: forced necessary raw apologetic, just needing to come out.
0
Dec 22, 2009
Dec 22, 2009 at 6:22 PM UTC
sick.
my legs scrape together. like the ears of an elephant they slap against each other against the cool vinyl seat they have chained me into with a medical observance. i squirm for comfort for completion for complacency but all i feel is the rustle of fabric. the woman stares, her eyes caring but cold unblinking mirroring a skeleton back at me. the doctor (what number, i cannot remember; there have been many nameless faceless coats trying to help) the doctor looks deep deep down his eyes clocks sundials scoreboards ticking away the hours the ninety-three pounds i have left on this earth. the air compresses. a whale in a bottle, i rip the chain into squares and run run run down the street. i am fine. i am invincible. a crack trips me up. the world seethes red. a stranger's hand rights me. His eyes are kind. and for the umpteenth time, someone asks me. and for the umpteenth time, i feel my mouth shaping the word so empty and sterile habitually. "not--" but then i stop. and words come up like my offering after meals: forced necessary raw apologetic, just needing to come out.
Written by
bailey-b
American
Dec 22, 2009
Dec 22, 2009 at 6:22 PM UTC
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