Seventeen
Sterile walls in horrific dreams
A scalpel glistens incandescently
As I await my doom of seventeen years

Squeaking shoes down vinyl halls
The whitecoated reaper delivers his sermon
With detached air of a serial killer

Scratching pen on scrap of paper
My salvation to be taken
Twice a day, not once forgotten

Secreted blood in long rubber tubes
Draws up and away from transparent arms
Black bruises stand testament

Sepia evening in cell of four years
The walls, shoes, pen, and blood flood back
As strands of hair dance gracefully to the floor

Christina Wall