Stale Coffee and Antibacterial Hand Gel

My life has been torn apart,
like a juicy slab of meat a tiger has torn to bloody shreds.
I retreat into a tiny ball on the floor.
Gurneys with the sick are rushed past.
A few nurses stroll by, but I go unnoticed.
I try to hide my face.
I bury it into the rigid, scratchy carpet.
It smells of stale coffee and antibacterial hand gel.
I try to cry, but no emotion surfaces.
Weakly I pound my fist into the foul carpet, but still I feel nothing.
I curl farther and farther into his favorite sweatshirt.
I rid my lungs of all the vile smells of the place I am laying,
and inhale my favorite smell.
His smell.
It already smells different.
It is weaker, as if it’s already fading.
I turn my shell of a body towards the gray, dank hallway wall.
I stare at it blankly.
I feel nothing.
I hear nothing
I smell stale coffee and antibacterial hand gel.