a standard for agony |
when I wake up hidden fire eats my arm from within, the IV burning drop by drop. needles conjure no dread for me. when I was very small my daddy pinned me to my diaper. my eyes got big and quizzical, as if to ask him, did you mean to do that? but I never cried and trusted him still when the pin was gone. when the nurse makes her rounds I ask her why I burn. potassium, she tells me. she checks the bags, adjusts it will drip slower, now— that’s all I can do. I cry that night, long hours spent rustling my pillow to a dryer spot, whimpering until the bag is empty. I feel that burn again standing beside a hospital bed as my sister stares at me, her eye still so blue, so like our mother’s— so blind. and I am helpless powerless to fix her. line count: 36 Prompt ▼ |