I'm alive, but I'm broken.

I don't feel sorry for myself. My life, a subplot to a slow-flowing movie without an end. There is something, there are some things that need to be said. Whiring machines delivering death blows to my veins, through my plumbing to the microscopic culprit. pop. whir, searing pain. My vein rebels, commits suicide, a martyr to the ongoing war under my skin, but if it would just behave things would be easier. A tough interior. Maybe one day it will rise again, a miracle, but 10 days later and as (not) per usual, it's still in the throws of rigor mortis. children laughing in hospital hallways. Hallucinations of the truly malevolent sort, the veil between worlds at it's thinnest. Metal tables, restraints, gas masks and naked on the cold surface of an operating suite. A suite-but there's no coffee or cable. tears, screams, cries so loud they penetrate concrete walls and your brain. Death. Babies. Dead babies. Good-as-dead mothers. Curtains pulled for the illusion of privacy. Bad news, everyone's business. needles, deep, deep, deep in my neck, groin, arms, hands, spine, face, feet, elbows, arms, fingers, thighs, wrists, arteries. Watching. They numb the skin buy they can't numb the nerve endings, heart sacs, bones, lungs or tendons they inevitably puncture. Thank you for letting me watch. An incision, a long, long, deep incision. Catheters. Catheters in my groin, catheters in my urethra, my veins, my arteries, my heart. Needles in my cervix, through my lip, along my back. Control. Puking. The medicine in making it impossible to eat. I eat, I wait, I puke. I stick my fingers down my throat, control. I make incisions, control. I stick needles in my skin, control. Beeping, beep beep beep that fucking beeping taunting me. Beep your heart's still beating beep you're out of medicine beep can I help you beep I'm done shitting beep you're dead. I'm dead. I'm talking, okay, I'm fine. I'm feeling funny I'm dead. Black. Nothing. Gone. Peace. peace. peace. Regret. Panic! I'm alive, but I'm broken. Dialysis whir. broken ribs, breathing tube, conversations on paper when my throat is stuffed with tubes. Are those even words? Monster eyes, I see you. Blurry. blurry. Beep pain medicine beep narcotics addiction. Control. Drip drip drip I.V poles...I'm beginning to loathe all things metal. Tubes so many tubes. Fluid so much fluid. So much blood so many bruises. So many scars. Needles in my ribcage 1 inch long, every second of every day. tubes. Frustrating. unfair. deserved? Accepted. broken ribs are forced apart. I'm helpless. Latex gloves reach inside my chest, rip out my heart, my broken heart. Aortas everywhere, cadavers, dead girls, accidents, dead babies, charred remains, twisted metal. I fucking hate metal. rubbing alcohol. Nose bleeds, I shit myself walking into the hospital, I'm really sick but I drove myself here. Alone, all alone, always alone. Lonely cards, get well soon. Stop making us uncomfortable, either die, or don't, why do you have to linger in between? (in so many words). Visits are less and less frequent then non-existent. Old hat. What's new? Surgery, so what. Grow up. grow up. grow up. can't coddle you. real world, grow up. Blood on a canvas, control. The dreams, oh fuck the dreams. The side effects. dreams and bones turning to dust. Well, mud what with all the fluids. I really hate metal. nightmares and an empty bed. A new family sterile and stern and better than nothing. a conference, communication is key, laughable. broken dreams for broken dreams. death in exchange for life. I am a stealer of hearts. I am a thief of life. My life is broken in return for existing. A deserved trade? Accepted.