Sitting here in the hospital waiting room, I can do nothing but write. I guess I’ve gotten used to it, speaking to a girl so elusive she can’t show her face just to help fight my demons with her own pencil, sharpened, graphite glistening.
So I just sit, write, and watch.
The man beside me is sobbing into a yellow handkerchief.
The woman to my left is hugging her daughter, old against young.
The teenage girl in the hallway is shivering without a sweater over her bare shoulders.
The dead ivy inside me has no heart to warm.
Because, as they try desperately to save your frail, weakened body, I can do nothing but wonder if it was my fault.
It seems these days, everything is.
