by Emily R Mazza
Because hospitals are a place where injured people are fixed;
I am now “good as new”.
Eighteen stitches, screwdrivers and injured people--
“Good as new”.
Bleeding badly but after eighteen straight edge razor blades, emergency staff satisfied themselves with my sutured wounds.
Emotional shock prys at a body that is no longer my own,
Crowded with the damage done to my feet and arms that whisked my shadow away.
I am now alone.
But after eighteen hours spent in a hospital bed, my family still screams at the wounds left on my crimescene of a body.
I am now dying.
And my eighteen razors, stitches and hours of agony gnaws at the formalities whom comforted my family saying “she's good as new”
I am now the devil's dust,
how sad they left me alone.