Scent of Empty
Scent of Empty
Driven down to the children’s ward,
I crawl up through the backless gown,
after taking an hour to get out of my pants, and little white high-top shoes.
It is coming anyway.
The smiling wallpaper is gone. No crayons, just bleach.
I’m floating on a tray, square lights passing in time.
Flash, flash.
Stop. I want to go back.
The worst is the smell.
It’s the wrong smell. It doesn’t fit.
It’s not bright spring, not warm food,
not soft and tumble-dried, not fun and farty-sour.
It’s all vanilla and rot.
It is the scent of empty.
Mom says, I need this, so I won’t walk on my toes anymore.
The doctor talks about lengthening something in my legs.
What are hamstrings?
After the sleep, they say, I’ll walk better.
It’s here.
I hear the metal heart beeps.
Slow footsteps of some wild horned thing.
It’s breathing. Behind me. Under me. Just out of sight.
I’m a shaking knot.
Under a cold unblinking glare.
Sharp lights and giants huddle around.
They don’t have mouths. They just stare.
I see behind the smell.
The wrong smell.
They bring a flower to my face.
No color, just a clear plastic funnel.
Its breath is on me. Its weight pushing me down.
The scent of empty.
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