hospitals (the third reckoning)
, cw hospitals
was it that I was born semiote: thrice-gifted, thrice scorned? or was it that radiant baptism in the sterilizing glow of exorcism? did my hands - death engraved on the right and curses flowing through the left - weave the fabric of night into dew? no. my tiny hands could never reach that far are they trying to keep her out? the flourescence is blinding. it's searing it's tearing through my insides it's overtaking it can't be too late it never is, it never is, it never is, it never is, it never is, it never is it always was. 10:11 on a friday. we left in the hour of moths, when the shrouded trees dance against the bright night sky and the earth bleeds its final words, its first words, an ending. to wade through the blood is a gift. to add to it is a tragedy. it's 11:05 on a friday. at times, I feasted upon the flesh of the flesh of a child's final meal and the lethe's soft water-of-grace. can you believe it? it's 11:06 on a friday. though, it seems, those gifts were a scorn of the past. what I had was life, in my litle hands, covered in stubble it's 11:07 on a friday. what I had was what I clung to in the drithe of hospital beds it's 11:07 on a friday. what were the constants, what could I keep through the fog? it's 11:07 on a friday. the moon yet shines, the wind still cuts, and the hands have clung through. I swear I'm checking the time again. 5:12 on a saturday. 5:37 on a saturday. the dawn of a saturday and the dying of the night. the wind sings praises as I exit, still alive. she speaks in whispered and drawn memory. I speak with the weight of the sticky Curse of Beds lain upon me: bared to the healers, I have no words but those I was given.