by Ethan Owens
A hospital patient
Open my box, dear adversary, and assess its contents.
Scribble the imperfections in your crude clipboard and vomit them out to all, like a nauseous choirmaster. You are sick, not I.
This room, pure white (save the blue bruise of your presence),
is my afterlife. When you are here, you interrupt it like a cough in a funeral, a man spilling his mouthy bucket of phlegm everywhere he speaks. When you leave, I am alone with the loud tolls of the clock on the wall sending quaking tremors through my ears as I lay, waiting for your slimy hand to grip my door and enter again.
But how I love the scent of the ladies entering my room, wheeling in their gorgeous goblets of heaven and wielding syringes like tiny swords. Each day they fill my body with needles. I am their happy little pincushion. The swords bring me pleasure no lover can, as I drift in space and float to the time kept by that clanging clock:
Until the loud knock of my enemy wakes me again.