“We’ll keep in touch. Good luck!”
My dad shuts the door.
The walls close in,
Squeezing the breath out of my chest.
Cold, concrete blocks,
Gripping my arms with icy cold fingers
Hospital-white walls, and
The chemical-cleaner smell.
I’m a patient.
My disease is called “too old to live at home anymore.”
The voices outside are boisterous.
Newly grown children drinking in their freedom.
But, I’m a zoo animal in my cage.
I keep the door closed so no one will stare.
My stomach rumbles a noisy protest.
My legs won’t move.
They don’t know where to go.
The only part of me that isn’t at the mercy of my stomach.
I gnaw on a granola bar made of gravel and chocolate chips.
I’ve left Earth for Mars.
First appeared in Tobeco Literary Arts Journal 2016-2017