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Third time is a charm, they say. But there aren’t three chances, there’s just one.
Slice.
Moved from one room to the next. Machine to machine. Doctor to doctor.
Pull.
No faces, just masks, eyes, coats, scrubs, and fluorescent lights.
Cut.
My body sits on a bed, unable to move as my mind fades in and out of what is real.
Insert.
Drip…drip…the medicine I guess. I see a bed, a window, my bed sheets. Although nothing seems real reminding you, “you are not okay.”
Clip.
Not sure if you will come out of this, the light brings you comfort in the most distressing way.
Close.