Monday, September 3, 2012

But They Mean Well.


She watches the other woman with the abscess hidden under heather gray, pink ribbon tied on a finger but soiled. She has to get up, she asks for water, can she please have some water. The woman has that manicure with the longer nails, a little too long, running them along skin that is bumpy under this light, milk gone bad, veins, petechiae. 
Do you have any skin allergies.
Is your skin broken anywhere.
Please remove your shirt, bra and jeans.
This will be over soon.
Please lift your arms.
Is this a birthmark.
Does this hurt.
Is this a bruise.
Sweetheart I'm not gonna bite you. I swear.
She feels fingerpads on her face. Her own. Feels forehead wrinkle into pain, wants to jump from that window, that window is so far away. She's tired. She wants to know where she's going. Lead into a room. Another girl is naked from the waist-down and asks her for food. Do you have any food. 
No I have nothing. Do you have water.
No I don't have nothing. Neither. Want fucking cheesecrackers. Do you know my friend? Do you know my friend Cyndi?
No.
Cyndi Crawford. I'ma call, call you Cyndi.


You look forward to crosswords.
And those cross words.


The air there is full of sick. And piano.
Milling.
A limp smell.


All they know to do is fling you back out.

3 comments:

Millineries said...

But they mean well.

Russell said...

they mean well. even the piano players.

Anonymous said...

i am a psych ward piano player, filled with hate and mercy. it's extremely funny.