She waits by the rolling silver tray like it’s a chapel of chrome
and quiet fire,
whispering sweet nothings to each syringe like they’re secrets she’ll never retire.
She names them gently with the reverence of someone who’s bled
for grace,
and she smiles just a little too wide
when one finally recognizes her face.
She cradles the cold glass vials like they might bite if she’s too fast,
and hums an old tune that wraps around your spine
and doesn’t let the moment pass.
She calls one “Mercy,” the other “Faith,
” and lines them up with trembling care,
then leans down close like she’s telling them truths only broken things would dare.
She never waits for nurses to offer their dosage with a practiced hand,
she chooses her poison with the precision of someone who understands.
She favors the long thin needle that trembles
when it touches skin,
and whispers, “This one remembers the nights I didn’t let anything in.”
She’s the girl who talks to needles with her voice so soft
and sweet,
like every syringe holds a lover’s name she can’t wait to repeat.
She doesn’t wince when the metal bites deep through fragile veins,
she closes her eyes and smiles like it’s rain washing out old pain.
She maps her arms like a well-worn script,
each line a chapter bled and gone,
she guides the needle like a brushstroke on a canvas that still breathes
when drawn.
And when it slips beneath her skin like a kiss from someone she used to be,
she sighs and says,
“This is the only thing that still feels like me.”
The staff have tried to slow her down,
to swap her glass for padded calm,
but she just smirks and says,
“Don’t take the thing that taught me to be strong.”
She knows the dosage, knows the pull,
and how to melt just past control,
and she thanks each one with quiet grace
for playing their little role.
She once kissed a blood-wet vial and told it,
“You’ve been the only one who stays,”
then traced her veins like railroad tracks across too many yesterdays.
She doesn’t dream like others do–her sleep is clean and deep,
wrapped in stainless lullabies that sing her wounds to sleep.