Glass Heart
Leo Driver
A being made of melting sand, beating off the sun endlessly sounding dull, tired of itself too. Weakness is its only friend for no one wants to stay with paper-thin skin and a dryer throat that becomes grating to healthy ears.
A life of solitude is all it knows—walls so sterile that it glistens with liquid poison and lights that burn into shrunken pupils. People in coats enter and leave this quiet cage, the beating getting faster, yet nothing could explain it other than what was expected.
Another dose, another sample, another test, another meal. A cycle to keep the beating barely audible for the body’s sake.
When does it end? When will I feel whole? Will I always be this way?
Even the questions were being drowned out by the low buzzing and beeping of the machines that both keep it alive and violate its entire being.
There’s nothing left to hide, but it all keeps being rearanged when a new diagnoses is discovered within its depths. A new symptom leads to new pills, new tests, new meals.
But, it does nothing now. Nothing will. The suffering will only continue for a heart that’s slowly beating. Slowly dying. Slowly…
There is nothing to be done, it will stop beating in another year, but it won’t come any sooner than a snail trying to win a race. One year will feel like 100 as the treatment gets worse.
Drowning in medicine, it still beats, but the rattle in its ivory cage is apparent.
No one will hold it or tuck it into bed when the end finally comes for it. No one will kiss it goodnight once the glass shatters and what was inside bleeds out forever into a cold river of the unfortunate that fell before it.
Helpless souls that were never meant to be born, yet tried to defy their fate anyway.
Underneath it all, wings spread and soared into the depths, freedom at last. Freedom to try again.
Scribble City: Write Now 