Mornings in bed, before I dare rise,
Interns gossip on the early shift
And hall fluorescence, dimly lit,
Fringes the door of my closed ward
Where I resume the denigrations
Scraping my arms with bitten nails,
A masochist of dulled compulsion.
At seven sharp the charge-nurse carts
Towards my door-lit corner, hypodermic
Blood bags and whispers instructions:
The diurnal draw, my doctor's tab
On mood-dulling brain salt. "Stretch
Wrist and forearm, so," she insists,
Tying rubber tubing tight above the fist.
The compulsion finally pricks the skin
As I bend my arms, slacken limbs,
And relax clenched fists. My white
Underarm, speckled red from the syringe,
Drops to the bedsheets, then sways--
My nurse curses, withdrawing yet again
The cold needle, re-establishing veins.
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