In a Hospital Waiting Room
I've been trying desperately to get a poem out, with no success whatsoever. This, however, wrote itself. Drabble like.
It's not very good. But at least it's something.
The walls were white. That glossy, sterile white that sucks every molecule of oxygen out of the room. That white that compresses you and squeezes you until you can barely inhale, barely keep the horrified pounding of your heart from rattling your whole body.
That white that means there’s nothing you can do to help, nothing you can do to stop it, nothing you can do except wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Until they come out too slowly and your heartbeat turns into a roar in your ears, putting up a wall between you and those words. Those words that mean there’s nothing you can do to help, nothing you can do to stop it.
Nothing you can do but wait, because maybe they’re wrong and maybe there’s still a chance. But those walls are white; that glossy, sterile white that compresses you and squeezes you until you can barely inhale and the horrified pounding of your heart is rattling in your soul so hard that your teeth are clicking together.
Nothing you can do, and you scream at the white walls and the people in white coats and the clipboards full of white pages. You scream, and you wait.
And wait.
And wait.
But she's white. That white that compresses and squeezes until there's not a single molecule of oxygen left in her lungs; that glossy, sterile white that means you couldn't help, you couldn't stop it, and now it's over and there's nothing you can do.
Not even wait.
It's not very good. But at least it's something.
The walls were white. That glossy, sterile white that sucks every molecule of oxygen out of the room. That white that compresses you and squeezes you until you can barely inhale, barely keep the horrified pounding of your heart from rattling your whole body.
That white that means there’s nothing you can do to help, nothing you can do to stop it, nothing you can do except wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Until they come out too slowly and your heartbeat turns into a roar in your ears, putting up a wall between you and those words. Those words that mean there’s nothing you can do to help, nothing you can do to stop it.
Nothing you can do but wait, because maybe they’re wrong and maybe there’s still a chance. But those walls are white; that glossy, sterile white that compresses you and squeezes you until you can barely inhale and the horrified pounding of your heart is rattling in your soul so hard that your teeth are clicking together.
Nothing you can do, and you scream at the white walls and the people in white coats and the clipboards full of white pages. You scream, and you wait.
And wait.
And wait.
But she's white. That white that compresses and squeezes until there's not a single molecule of oxygen left in her lungs; that glossy, sterile white that means you couldn't help, you couldn't stop it, and now it's over and there's nothing you can do.
Not even wait.