Seriously, you can ask me anything at all.
Anything you want to know.
You’re afraid of needles until they can’t get one in you
and then you just want it done because there are pennies on your tongue and
to the left of your spine is just pin pricks and
static and then nothing at all so why be afraid of a needle you can’t feel when
you can be afraid of the not-feeling itself
Blackouts are white noise and shades drawn then tugged back one-two but this is—
white and white and white and it’s okay, it’s okay if I die, it’ll be okay
You can tell me anything you want.
You can be real with me.
There’s air in one tube and fluid in another and a cross above the door (just in case) and you wonder what others have told him when he says:
I’ve heard everything back here.
The world is retreating out the back window and it’s not the first time
you’ve watched tree rows on rewind but the last time
your dad drove to the hospital and took you home and this time
your dad is dead and he’s been dead for five years and you thought
you might see him again, maybe
even if it wasn’t the light at the end of a tunnel so much as just so much light
It feels like he knows you and it feels like
you’ve been here before and will be here again some day
Your brain says it’s just chemicals and trauma, or maybe he’s fucking with you but you still might be missing a chance when he says one more time,
as late afternoon spills sun-bright through the doors and out you go on wheels with needles in your veins, finally,
Anything you want to know,
Anything at all.
Will I be okay and is there a God and who are you, really
I don’t have any questions,
but thank you.