This is not happening.
I am not taking a deep breath. I am not walking down the sickly white corridors with their bleach scent. I am not buying this cup of coffee from a cafeteria lady who is working at an hour that is reserved only for intensive care patients. This is not the way back to what is not John’s room.
That is not his heart rate dropping, and I am not running out of the room, screaming for help. We are not being pushed out, that door does not have a red light that claims intensive care, it has not been all night.
That is not John’s doctor explaining how they were not able to pump his stomach completely and it is not John who flat lined. That is not an empty hospital bed. That is not his moth
The nurses think you are beautiful. They have told me so with great warmth in their voices. "She is beautiful, your wife. Those lips, that hair, those slender fingers." In many ways it is easier to speak to them than to friends. Friends are frightened by the busy, space-aged machinery you are lost in.
"i haven't been sleeping well."
butterfly wing smiles and porcelain bones
"the medicine will help."
sparrow hearts and rose petal hair
undersea eyes and sailboat stomachs
"these things pass in time."
His heart gives out in the emergency room. Doctors rush to fulfill their Hippocratic Oath. Intubate him first; get him breathing. Get the air in his lungs. While they do that, determine that this is the situation for the defibrillator, then get someone else to wheel it out so they can get his heart working. Charge it up…
The girl screams at the way his body jerks on the table. The heart monitor displays a sudden spike of green, stalling in its sound for a second before the spikes even out again, returning to the comfort of being a flat line.
She screams again. Again, there’s a spike on the monitor; again, it flattens out into an even line. They wonder why she’s still here. Silent messages get sent at light speed, even as thei
I've learned many things from the psych wards. I've learned that cutting is an option to try and control emotions. I've learned to lie when people ask how I'm doing. I've learned to avoid confrontation whenever possible. The hardest thing I've learned from all of my psych warding was this one thing: once you hit 18, no one cares anymore. Adults aren't worth the effort to save or help. The staff only make a token effort for adults.
Every kid wants love and affection from somebody, be it a friend, relative, teacher or whomever. Early on, I lost faith in people. I was a 'mistake'. The reason my parents married a couple years before they'd planned to.
There's no possible way to get out
And it's not just mentally anymore,
It's physically too.
The pea-green walls are closing in on me.
I'm in open air,
But I can't catch my breath.
One may think of this as a hotel,
But it's a prison
A prison hiding under the name of "hospital".
I hate that word.
People don't realize just how much.
It's a death trap,
Looking completely friendly on the outside,
But once one breaches the outer wall,
The inside becomes clear.
They'll hold you 'til you die,
And then you emerge a zombie,
Forever doomed to walk this planet,
With no hope of ever turning back...
It’s a month to the show. A month. Four weeks, give or take a day…
“I can’t believe it. Prismacolor markers, pencils…oil paints, turpentine…brushes…” He stares at the bounty with wide eyes. “Where did you get all of this?”
I just grin and set down a bag full of canvases of various sizes on the bed. “I happen to have very good friends.”
Actually, Mac happens to have very good friends. Friends in places an artist can only dream to have friends.
“Are those the…?”
“Mm-hmm. I think someone said something about bringing in an easel later.”
“Really? A-an easel?”
“Mm-hm.” I open the window. A small breeze blows through the screen, but nothing strong enough to disrupt papers. “It’ll be easier than painting on the windowsill.”
“Yeah…” He goes back to staring at the
“Once again, I can’t stress how…terribly sorry we are about the mishap this afternoon.”
“N-no…no, it’s fine. Honest. I won’t sue unless I develop a habit for the stuff.”
They chuckle nervously. “Regardless… That was a careless move on our part. It could have been worse than a sedative.”
“Is he always that difficult?”
“You mean, ‘Is he always that hysterical?’”
She nods. “He’s never been…that way before. I’ve never seen him like that.”
“Yes, well… Normally we wait until you leave. When you left we just assumed—”
“That I was gone for the day.”
“My camera was there. All my stuff…”
“We didn’t see your things; he must have put them somewhere for saf
it would hurt less for me.
And I wish I could give more,
then maybe you'd see-
That the world doesn't hate you,
but people are mean.
That you are not dirty,
but scars are not clean.
I wish that I lied more,
I'm sure you'd feel lighter.
But you're too good for lies,
and I'm not a fighter.
I wish truths were pretty;
I wish I were, too.
Then you'd never worry,
and cuts would run blue.
I wish life were easy-
though, where's the reward?
If living were easy
we'd surely grow bored.
And isn't it boredom,
that births bad ideas?
And aren't all things easy
not actually real?
ready to snap at any moment, and a patient who should
be on lockdown and confined by four white walls.
i think they neglected to realize i already have cages
of my own.
no smell of well-worn shoes,
no scent of last night's dinner,
no stale cologne caught in the sheets.
The smells are of humanity sterilized,
sanitized and ready for injection,
for the cure,
for a clinical release from all malady.
There is no age here --
we are all children in the latex-gloved hands
of white-robed gods,
trusting that they know best,
surrendering our bodies to be carted, prodded,
shaved and bathed by strangers
to cleanse us of all pride,
all our infectious personness,
so that we may be opened up
like broken clocks
to fix the sticking cogs inside.
how people gather in one place
to say things they normally
you love the smell of alcohol,
lazy along drag of heels and
fingertips on the stair railings
steel cold and clean.
but you hate waiting rooms
and hallways with chairs across
from rooms occupied and
signs that aren't promising a
teary welcome home.
right now there's a man and
his wife you can guess and
he's holding her hand and they're
both looking at the floor.
and across from them is a door.
you want to say "sorry" or
"i'll hold your hand"
but any sound will crack
the glassy tension budding from
the meters of the floor;
you've your own place.
so you carry on using your head
as a battering ram to
escape from the weight
but before you've gotten out of sight
there's the doctor with his
high head but weary face
and he walks right past you and
behind there are feet hitting the floor
to throw bodies upright
and that goddamn
even you stop with a
hand pinching you
with bandaids on our arms from the blood tests
but you made me feel torrential,
like beyond all of this or inside all of this
we’re still young and burning and free.
We don’t feel sad anymore.
Sadness is just the tip of the iceberg, a thin mist that covers our everything.
All moments are sad but so many thoughts and feelings swirl within that sadness,
a complexity of love and of laughter and happiness, even.
Time might be short but our hearts are expansive.
I am a vast ocean. With a tip of your head you’re my travel plan;
holding tickets to a future that I didn’t think I’d find here
you’re the nightlife in London and breakfast in France.
We didn’t meet under starlight but like a stranger on the street corner
I knew that I would find you
wrapped up in me when it’s too cold to sleep
and our chances too bleak to go home.
We didn’t meet in a nightclub but it’s loud,
A weak, hoarse voice spoke.
It was as pitiful as a puppy drenched in rain and equally helpless.
"Hi," you spoke in reply, your words unstable.
"I can't see you well. I heard you come in..." she sounded breathless, a runner in an endless marathon. Her voice was like a tattered cloth full of holes, defenseless against a roaring wind.
You approached the girl.
"You look... amazing," the girl murmured.
You knew you should say something like that, too, tell her that despite all that had happened, she was still beautiful. But the girl's appearance sto
“I-I need some help! My wife needs help, now!” Lovino yelled as they pulled up to the counter.
“Sir, calm down, tell me what the problem is—”
“What does it look like the problem is, my wife’s going into fucking labor!” he shouted as Antonio, Gilbert, and Francis came through the doors and hurried to them.
“Sir, there is no need to be so rude—”
“If you don’t get some help for her right now, you’re going to be dealing with something a lot worse than this,” he said darkly, his eyes burning holes into the woman’s head.
“Lovino, stop it,” Antonio said sternly as he placed a f
Ludwig had an addiction to physical matience. It would be the only thing that he did. He never ate never slept for almost a year. his brother Gilbert was concerned for him. What makes him want to work out? What is he hiding? What is he ashamed of? One day after a 10 mile run, Ludwig keeled over in a heart attack and Gilbert called 911 getting him checked into the hospital as quickly as they can. Luckily they found a new
She hadn't expected that. She'd thought maybe sharp objects, or being surrounded by the sick and the dying, and of course that infamous smell
'There are no evil nurses.'
'There you are, you see, that's the problem. You trust them just because they're nurses. But they have so much power over you! They're the ones with the syringes and the chemicals. They're the ones who walk up and down between the beds while everybody's sleeping. If you wanted to be a serial killer, it would be a great idea to become a nurse first.'
'Didn't that happen on one of those hospital shows? Have you been getting freaked out by the TV again?'
'A kidney transplant happened on one of those shows,' he said, 'and now it's happening in real life.'
'But ' She was out of logical arguments, even though she knew there were plenty. 'Why nurses?
Well... what do I do with it?
Three weeks later, a postage stamp arrived at 24 Raven Avenue, accompanied by a securely enveloped letter, which had passed through precisely three hands. The last twin of hands was now residing in a wooden case.
The sky had expanded overnight, it seemed.
Six decibels wondered whether another would accompany them, but that was all. That was all, and Shea, the negligible girl against the green, found it absolutely magnificent. Her finite fingertips followed the strips of grass in the centre of her palm; whispering to herself, she muttered something about how odd it was that everybodys palm was pink, and how prejudice God must be.
With eyes closed and ears open, she may have seemed dead to any passers-by well, she didnt mind their stifled giggles, anyway. Her wild hair, strewn casually across the ground, had decided that it was feeling more golden than brown today. What d
It hung on them like the thick layers of dust and peeling paint.
It oozed out of the detritus that gathered in the corners; scraps of cloth, broken glass, bits and faded pieces of forgotten lives.
Silence lived in the wide rooms of rusting bed-frames and bloodstained floors.
Silence lived in the small rooms of broken instruments and moldering cots.
Silent were the echoes of the ghosts in the walls.
Silent were the souls of all that had lived, died, struggled, and suffered in the ancient building.
Silent were my footfalls as I traced the paths they would have tread.
The deaf and dumb child that was the shame of his parents.
The quiet old grandfather that sighed as he tried and failed to remember his name.
The crying young woman who begged her family not to leave her in this place.
The man who lived in fear of the screaming voices in his head, who prayed every night that God might take them away.
God never did.
The doctors tried, but they took away the