Overheard In Room 15

Bleed out in Room Fifteen. No, you don’t need
any supplies. You’ve seen this before, the
hollow eyes, the wild haven’t slept for
days haunted look of someone walking half
in and half out of their skin until they
bleed out what is left of their mangled spirit
for us to scrub up the pathetic mess
in bleach and blue or green pills for all your ills.
Not even a fucking thank you very much!
You can't handle your life? Try working
here and watch every asshole broken bone
tortured soul walk through the door and take its
insignificant toll on the lives of
the living. I hurt. I need. I want to
forget the pain. Let that pain press you up
against the wall, vomit up the poison
and pray in the dark it won’t be you next
week that is cut up on a white sheeted
gurney for all of us to see how fucked
up you really are with your secrets pinned
down like a goat’s heart on a tray to be
dissected, desiccated, and disseminated.
And now Fifteen wants to leave after we
have started the paper work that will frame
her in these lines of indelible ink:
Off-kilter, uncertain, unwell and unfit
to do anything but heavy medication.
Doesn’t she know that we can't just stop?
That paperwork is in progress and I don’t
give a rat’s ass if she has someplace to
be. Should have thought of that before she came
spilling out her insides on our nice clean
sheets. You should be dead or dying here. No
protests from the living about living .