dead.

the first time, it smells like metal and oranges. not decay–just tangy hospital railings. and the peel my mother twists on her lap. and remember: the vending machine still blinks exact change only–but the world doesn’t flit back. the nurse sports shiny shoes that squeal like little piggies.

later that week, i try more sounds: as the monitor hums at 3 A.M., crickets chirp, and sparrows warble into suffocating air. the light from the street lamp lets out a buzzing thrum, filtering through the blinds like liquid neon, pooling into shapes on the ground. the ceiling fan shrieks, giggles, hiccups, and then spins vacuously. again and again. 

when the time came, i wore silver-polish that chipped into half-moons. my uncle said i looked “distracted,” but i kept thinking about how skin keeps its warmth, for a few minutes, like it’s reluctant. to let go. how a hand can feel heavier than it should, pressing a weight that isn’t its own. and dust settles into flesh crevices. 

i’ve finally stepped away, but the room stays with me: the monitor stops its quiet hum, the fan spins empty air, the streetlamp dribbles light across the floor in long, liquid lines. the smell of metal and oranges diffuses over my tongue, coaxing the back of my throat, cloying and bitter, tasting it in the hollow spaces, coppery and impossible to 

leave behind.