All of the faces are happy here.

They smile.

They speak like I’m a child.

I’m twenty one,

dying young.

 

The heart monitor beeps, a steady rhythm

reminding me of oblivion.

 

Snowflakes spiral outside the window,

piling up.

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.

Poetry

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