In the waiting room,
the walls are white
Scrubbed with a strong chemical weekly.
The people are white
The chairs are white
My room at home is white
When will I be called to go in?
Soon.
It's the longest memory,
this coming and going of pain
(Though the pain never really goes away)
It just quietens.
The hospital blinds are white
Her face wasn't white
(It was yellow)
But I am white
It is the most terrible colour
Wrapping it's arms of sickness around me
It is the most surreal memory
(Who am I?)
Was that me?
It was me before half of me left
When I was whole
When I was not white
But
Pink
And red
And all things hopeful.
Jul 11, 2011
Jul 11, 2011 at 2:00 AM UTC
In the waiting room,
the walls are white
Scrubbed with a strong chemical weekly.
The people are white
The chairs are white
My room at home is white
When will I be called to go in?
Soon.
It's the longest memory,
this coming and going of pain
(Though the pain never really goes away)
It just quietens.
The hospital blinds are white
Her face wasn't white
(It was yellow)
But I am white
It is the most terrible colour
Wrapping it's arms of sickness around me
It is the most surreal memory
(Who am I?)
Was that me?
It was me before half of me left
When I was whole
When I was not white
But
Pink
And red
And all things hopeful.
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