All of the faces are happy here.
They speak like I’m a child.
I’m twenty one,
The heart monitor beeps, a steady rhythm
reminding me of oblivion.
Snowflakes spiral outside the window,
Through the walls and sterilization, I can’t
smell the snow.
I can’t feel the cold.
I can’t feel the pain.
Medicine courses thick through my veins. They say I’m lucky.
Most people still hurt.
Lucky me, numb. Already dead.