I forgot how much I've always hated hospitals.
The smell alone is enough to make me nauseated,
and when I leave them, it feels like
death is clinging to my skin
while sadness dances on my shoulders
and disease whispers in my ears.
It's been two years since I've been in one.
Two years since I bid adieu
to beeping machines,
and nurses named Hannah,
who tried to offer comfort
to the girl who just wanted another night
on the couch with her father by her side,
dozing off to a basketball game on tv.
Death is so cruel.
Doesn't even knock.
Just opens the door and comes in,
sits in your favorite chair,
and asks for tea.
Drinks it slowly,
never breaking eye contact,
never caring that you are yelling
"Leave!"
"Fight!"
And when it is done,
done pulling every fiber of hope you have
out by the roots
with its cold fingers,
it rises like a shadow,
and exits leaving nothing but a silent breath
hanging in the air.
I lied when I said I was ready to say goodbye.
That it was okay for you to let go.
The truth is,
I was never ready to be the girl without a father.
To look at you as a memory.
To find alternatives for a father daughter dance at my wedding.
To say "You would have loved my dad".
No one deserves the pain
of permanent goodbyes.
And for this I say life is just as cruel
as its sister death.
It brings people in your life
that open up your heart in ways
you never thought possible.
Makes you fall in love
with otherwise mundane moments,
only for its sister the reaper to claim them back.
You are terrifying twins,
whose agenda I do not understand.
Who continue to break my heart.
