Of All The Stories I've Written, I Share With You, Stranger, These Few

Lonely and Forgotten

*dedicated to charlotte. i'm sorry you never found peace*

Lonely and forgotten,
I miss the way the halls were filled with students,
always chattering about the latest gossip.
But I lay here in my bed,
alone and cold
and I wish I had chosen to just go home for spring break,
instead of spending it here in this cramped dorm,
too cold to even waste away the hours by reading,
or even waste away at all.

It's not even cold anymore,
I'm no longer shivering.
   
I realize this after,
but if my breath could talk,
the room would be filled
with it's screams of my incompetence,
but even then my breath would be too cold to exert that much energy.
   
People are inside my room.
They are touching my wrists,
they are pressing on my chest.
This I remember
from health class a few years ago,
my teacher called it CPR.
   
I'm not dead though.
Don't they hear my screams?
I'm not dead,
not yet at least.
   
I hear my ribs crack but I am too tired to exhale in agony.
I always wondered why pain is more raw when you're cold.
   
I can still hear my heartbeat
I can still feel my lungs grasp for air,
they hold on to each breath with slippery fingers.
I'm slipping.

Slipping.

Slipping.

Gone.