Kill Me

Between plastic jars of cotton swabs

lies the shears, mocking.

It’s promise of peace and ending

is spitefully out of reach.

He lays, cocooned in too thin sheets

and watches.

The glint of metal arches over the room

disappearing with the sunlight.

Figures pass but their hands he cannot feel.

He is oblivious to the foreign fluids in his veins,

And the crusade of overworked nurses

whose eyes give away the slightest hint of defeat.

Inside he gasps and painstakingly

forms his lips to tell of his comfort with death,

His acceptance and dehumanizing pain

But all they hear is labored breathing.

Mistaken nurses pat his numbed arm,

Assuring him of his successful sigh.

But the truth of his intent escapes the bleached room.

And the dawn mocks him again.