Tubes of blood wired to every vein,

Needles pump in blood until my blood is artificial,

Just looking at the crimson tubes makes me want to be sick,

Though there is nothing to be sick with,

The scent of chemicals and bleach,

And the sickly perfume of the lillies,

As if I was already dead,

Every bone jabs my skin like a little dagger,

A pearl and ivory dagger,

Every drink they hand me is laced with medicine,

Toxic-tasting like they want to poison me,

Surviving on these countless pills alone,

The ritual of throwing up made eating a waste of time,

Why won't they just kill me and end the pain?


The End

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