Candy and Bleach

Raspberry and lemon lozenges. White paper box, sticky from rootbeer circus sticks. Tongues tattooed cotton-candy. Crayons gone missing. Color with your fingers instead. Pretend the barn is red in the hospital room. Hot afternoons are cooled and calmed with ice pops, flavored ice. Pocahontas T-shirt worn twice. A rainbow slinky dies, death due to terminal entanglement.

Clipboards with grown-up writing walking back and forth from rooms 24 , 25, 26. Just barely grazing the lobby. Glasses coming off, on to the head of a busy doctor. Pursing lips and tongue-tapping, tisking away at a busy chart. Rabbit on the floor named Doctor Floppy. Coloring away the night before. Unfamiliar dialogue finds its way through, somehow, some way, even over the television. Casting images of puppets. Sing along.

Glasses come back down.

"Hi, there, sweetheart. Can you tell me what happened?"

Sprained-thumb pushing on blue shorts. Clamping down on truths. Orangejelly lips refusing to move. Had to get away, had to get away. No one else sees you. More grown-up writing. Exchanging medical terms. Flying over my head like a hot air balloon. Wicker baskets, shiny film. Too high for me to touch. Hiccups ensue.

"She does this when she's nervous."

I changed my mind; the barn should be blue. Smellsipping the soaking bleach, too clean and bright. I miss my bed and I regret telling them about you. Too late now. Here comes the icky stuff. Tar syrup, something that makes me sleepy. Soporific.

Where do you go when I drink this?

Back in bed, back home. Get well banner dangling softly above my head. Doctor Floppy smells like anti-bacterial soap. Sleeves protecting me. Haven't spoken in 5 months. Won't speak for at least another.