Creative Writing

Trigger Warning

By Anonymous

Eat me. 

Drink me. 

The final act in this life of cold consumerism 

will be to consume.

How fitting.

I tell you that I love you, 

I tell you that I’m sorry, 

I leave a note for my mother. 

But this pain begets more pain, 

and now I am in the car, 

and I am not wearing any shoes, 

and I am throwing up in the circle drive. 

They put me in a wheelchair. 

But I can walk. I can walk just fine. 

Maybe I cannot be trusted

to bear that burden so soon. 

They take my clothes, 

give me a gown of sterile paper,

a hospital bed. 

There are no pockets for my phone.

And for the second time in my short life, 

I am a baby in a crib, 

anxious parents peering down 

and wondering what the future will bring. 

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