Hospitals are filled with dark crevices.
The white washed hallways are flooded with fluorescent lights that do not reach behind closed doors.
Whispers reverberate off of the walls, reaching to the darkness, making it grow.
It pools on the bleached floor, mixing with the ammonia that rises up to my nostrils and suffocates me.
The fluorescent lights in the hallway do not reach the light at the end of the tunnel.
The space between the door and the exit is a vast abyss, and no one knows where they're stepping or when they have to cross the threshold.
We don't have any hands to hold, and the whispers kiss our ears with the softest breeze.
The fluorescent lights do not reach the dark crevices within me.