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After Fall Out Boy
thank god the drip they gave me that one spring night (you know the one) was benzos because nothing in the world is worse than knowing something sharp is inside my body — i must be entirely gone to even talk about needles, their intended medical purposes. simply put, i’d rather not. my biology teacher explains the circulatory system and i suddenly need the nurse’s office and its sensory deprivation chamber (and seriously, why does such a small concentration of teenage girls get so many migraines, but that’s an aside) and what i am getting at here is why is the hospital so sinister and comforting in tandem? fluorescents dull already-desaturated skin; i take off my gown when no one is looking to photograph myself nude with ecg nodes still stuck to my body. there is a virus outside and i think i am short of breath as in dying, not as in too many edibles and no more job and a boyfriend whose love language is sustaining conflicts. i want to believe nothing matters anymore so i ragdoll around the emergency room, shuffling slowly when i get up to go to the bathroom. i am at once afraid and in awe of how many times my grandmother has tolerated this — of course, this time next year, she’ll be gone. all of this will be gone.
