Trials

My arms ache and my heart throbs in the
cells of my reddened face and I am sure
if my tired eyes found less than nothing 
again, I’d bleed over the swollen faces 
and aggrieved cuts on forearms; the skins
of two, three, eighteen masquerades 
seem alright with swords swooning to slit 
throats and contort bodies with seizures
not as benign as they seem; hands swung
over beds and fluids exerting pressure,
a ten blade and two knives on either
sides of backs and the horrendous stench
of sterile air, those white walls and blue
sheeted robes seem cynical if looked at
without beating hearts; a trip of morphine,
hallucinations and knowing the feeling 
of your head cracking as you know the back
of your hand concurs with monitors and 
burning bodies, burning souls, burning
hearts, burning everything as blades are
dropped and knives sharpened; they say
some healers are compassionate; they
do much more than fix, they heal. The 
beeps are mute and the lights dimmed; 
I suppose I should call the it now, the
time of fleet, the time of death of another 
dead part not brought back to life, as you
expected to, as you were made to; time 
ticks and plays tricks and you can never 
tell when it is right to stop cutting yourself open, 
when other blades cut all those you’ve healed.

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