by Anna Pomeroy ’24
I feel you lurking––
Peering your head out from behind the wall.
Your glaring presence disrupts the vision from the corner of my eye.
I quickly turn my cheek, hoping to catch a glimpse––
Reassurance that maybe I am just crazy, or perhaps I am dying.
Sweat beads begin to trace down my hairline, caressing my cheek.
Is it really today?
Am I going to die?
I mean, technically I am.
Every day, every minute, every second,
Is one closer to death.
Your existence is wanted, yet many times necessary.
And while you strip away innocent souls,
You are a bandaid to an infinitely bleeding wound.
You stand awkwardly in the corner of the hospital room.
Like a middle school boy nervously waiting under the flashing disco light––
Not sure when to make the final move,
When to lean over the person with your wings spread and give them the kiss.
The kiss–– so gentle, yet so deceiving.
It’s as if you can see the thick fog of the soul being vacuumed up.
We are all dying, you just seem to choose when––
When to stitch up a wound that will only create an even wider one in someone else.