A Corpse's Pallor
~~~~~~~~
You returned to the ER,
hoping you'd get to see the handsome doctor again.
But the one who treated you was a female surgeon who asked a ton of questions,
prescribed you different colored pills
and recommended a psychiatrist
(as if you were sick in the head,
as if you were a crazy person.)
You weren't a crazy person.
So you didn't follow her advice.
When you were all patched up,
you walked along the hallways in search for the doctor,
too shy to ask around
(You didn't find him and you returned home crying, asking yourself why the world hated you.)
In a fit of anger, in a fit of rage,
you broke all the glass you had at your house
stepped on the broken shards
and as the flesh splits, crimson liquid seeps away from the wound
letting your trail blood over the dirty floor,
down into the grout lines that interrupted the white tiled linoleum.
You banged your head on the wall repeatedly,
so hard you felt your skull crack open,
screamed at the top of your lungs
until you couldn't utter a single squeak,
until your throat was sore
and you taste the copper of blood in your mouth,
until your legs gave out from under you.
Then, like a ghost, you slipped into terrifying darkness,
with death not so far behind your trail.
