KEIRA LYNN DODD

White

 

I die in bed, each hour
     suffocated by soft pillows

          and a spinning ceiling fan.

 

I sink into a doze
     I hope not to wake from,

          sucking in poisoned air,

               waiting for some relief from life.

 

My bed is a boat,

     a ferry to the other side,

          and I float in discomfort

               on a too calm sea.

 

I see my family

     on the shore.  I wave 

          sadly.  They are too far away,

               and anyway most of them

                    provided the wood,
                         even hammered in 

                              a few of the nails.

 

I imagine they miss me

     when I sleep, 

          but awake, I'm too loud

               and annoying.  I can't help

                    making noise.  They're forced

                         to cover their ears to hide the shrieks

                              that escape my mouth.  I don't mean

                                   to scream, but like a doll with a broken

                                        voice box, I was only taught a few phrases

                                             that repeat over and over, even without

                                                  pulling the string.

 

So it's best I mute myself.

     I clench my jaw shut

          so tight I feel my teeth

               begin to crack, the first

                    casualties in this war

                         against myself.

 

My legs I stretch out,

     hands arranged just so,

          eyes closed, throwing an unnatural

               stillness over everything.  

 

But my mind still runs,

     like a computer with the monitor

          turned off.  I want to pull

               the plug, or at the very least

                    reboot, or wipe my hard drive clean.

                         The programs I've installed 

                              have overloaded my memory.

                                   I want to erase myself.

 

I lie on my white bed

     with its white pillows

          and wish myself white, too.

               But it's all wishing.

 

I just lie here uselessly.

 

I'm not dying really,

     except in the sense that we all are,

          though I feel it more than most.

 

I feel the weight of the ceiling

     pressing on my chest.

          The room shrinks into a box.

               I'm trapped like a Christmas puppy,

                    waiting to be unwrapped

                         or to run out of air, ending

                              the misery of my confinement.

                                   But I'm unwrappable.  

                                        People have tried,

                                             but what they find 

                                                  is something they 

                                                       put back in the box.

                                                            I'm not what they wanted.

                                                                 They look for the receipt.

                                                                      They wish to exchange me

                                                                           for something better.

 

But the store I come from

     won't accept returns.  

          Believe me, I've tried.

               So I sit in the back of the closet

                    gathering dust.  I've been used

                         too many times, regifted and repackaged.

 

My bed is the shelf

     where I've discarded my life,

          to age slowly and painfully,

               every minute rotting away until

                    I'm nothing but bone, pure

                         and white and worthy of display

                              in some doctor's office,
                                   hanging upright for once,

                                        facing the world

                                             with a smile.