i have nightmares in white.

crisp
clean walls,
shiny, sterile floors,
the pale, blinding light
staring into me

for each click of the speculum,
each snap of latex,
there is a crack up my spine
and i am silenced

i am muted

i know
what it is like
to die.

sometimes dying
isn’t the end of existence,
it is the continuation of life
after you’re already gone

it is cracked lips and stuffy noses
it is wellness checks
and medication

it is romanticizing sharp objects
and panicking at the sight of blood

it is light pauses between words
to ensure that you are safe
before you speak

sometimes dying is living empty.

and when i wake
from my white nightmare,

i am hollow.