Hospitals.
Too familiar.
The noise of the bustling nurses in the halls.
The smells.
The beeping.
This constant noise.
Something was plugged in me.
Tubes.
Oh, I know what these are.
They were helping me breathe.
It reminded me too much of my father,
when he was laying in a bed, much like this,
right in his death bed.
Was I on my death bed?
YOU ARE READING
My Monster
PoetryHer name was Skylar. And she was addicted. Her substance: Meth/Crank/Glass... whatever you call it, it still screws you up in more ways than one. But after seventeen years of trying to be Ms.Perfect in an unstable family, is this really what she wan...
