i am reminded again of why i hate hospitals,
                                        especially when there alone.

maybe it's the scuffed floor or ugly upholstery of the chairs,
             or the doctors half-attention,
             or the way everybody stares,
             or the way i try not to....
             or  the way that one guy just needs to ask me what book i'm reading.
"it's... well, it's a book about these writers who are deceived into isolation
    and they write all  these stories of life and desperation"                              
              (he doesn't actually care)
              i hide in my hair.
              at least we tried to have a conversation....
              and then we just sit there,
              until she calls the next patient.
              i hope i'm next.

i am reminded again of why i hate hospitals,
                                       especially when there alone.

maybe it's the stale air up against the smell of warm blankets,
             or being fully clothed but feeling totally naked,
             or being wheeled around to some other location,
             or that being wheeled around kind of feels like
             a ****** up vacation....
             (you just get to lay there)
             ((and be numb))
but i think it's the way she rubbed that gel **** all over my tummy
                                                                     and that when i say tummy,
                                                                     i don't feel like a woman i feel like
                                                                     a baby
             and the way those plasticky tools let her see right through me
             and the way men just do not know what to do when
             women are bleeding
the nurse named jeff asks me, "oooh, which palahniuk?"
  "it's... well, it's the one about twelve writers who fall into the clutches of
      this crazy guy who locks them all up! this story's about guts n stuff,"
              "nice," he weirdly smirks,
and thankfully gets back to work.
jeff touches my arm a little too much,
and i didn't really want him to have my blood,
and maybe that's just vain stuff
but the conversation was... good enough...

and i am reminded again of why i hate hospitals,
                                            especially­ when there alone.

only got mister palahniuk*
trapped in a purple book,
this paper-bound blood work,
to keep me company.
i lay back with the iv drip next to my bed
as i sweetly surrender to his gory head....
this book, it's called haunted.


*i wish i had chuck's guts ~ literally and figuratively,
he has no ****** and incredible creative bravery.