Drip. Drip. Drip. 

I lay, palms to sky,
Eyes burning deep into the fluorescents.
Shallow breath comes and goes without resistance.

Nurses enter and exit,
Unnamed, unfaced, white ghosts,
One after another.

They speak.
I reply.
They leave.

                Drip. Drip. Drip. 

Alone again.
I am nothing but
the information on my paper bracelet:

LAST NAME, GABRIELLA
DOB: 07/XX/200X
SEX: F

DATE:
…What’s the date today?
How long have I been here?

                Drip. Drip. Drip. 

Unease creeps through my ever-still body.
My wound wails like an awful baby.
I remember my warm, blue-walled home,
pervaded with the aromas of rosemary and lavender
and promises of remedial chicken soup.
It screams louder now; I cover my ears.
I want out. I want out. I want out. 

But every day, like clockwork,
the wisemen come bearing gifts
of numbness and sleep.

The crimson gash is lulled to rest,
its stitched-shut mouth silenced.
It no longer cries its ugly lamentations.

                Drip. Drip. Drip.

Everything is the same here.
Everything is peaceful,
no surprises.

The nurses will always come.
The machineries will always hum
their single pleasant note.

The drips of the ether,
upon which I languidly sip,
resonate throughout the white room.

                Drip. Drip. Drip. 

Maybe it’s not so bad here.

Gabriella Smith intends to double major in molecular cell biology and psychology.