First Morning (Ward 8)

It takes my life, through a delicate, plastic pipe. I lie here. Knowing I am punctured. It takes my life. Straight from my feeble heart, that flutters, as the red stuff flows. My eye's open. See chest moving, and a rose pitifully blooming. A spark of red on an arm that's a dry, white steppe. A listless breeze blows through my skull, a whimper off noise, in a long empty hall. Butterflies in stomach. Trapped in this bed. Head full of loves, who are dead, dead, dead. In dreams I claw at loose earth, with fingers clawed, as if bones alone will do. If I apply foce, scream till hoarse, spew bile and spittle, won't bring them back. Must lie still. Bear it. The weight in tonnes of those dearly departed. I see it now vivid. I am waif-thin, pale skinned a terrible wretch, a thing. It's drained me. All of it. I'm so warm that I must glow as a lantern, thrown against frosted window. I am the shards.