Fifteen

 

(one… two…)

Her fingers thicken in haste,
slip in soft clinks back with rapid
breaths and swallowed tears.

(eight… nine…)

The wild-eyed mirror evades
her pleas, so she begs the tiles
for cool comfort. She flushes away

(twelve… thirteen…)

her hopes.  The welts on her arm throb,
wakening the ember-glow burn of memories.
Her heart murmurs with freshly cut lips.

(fourteen… fifteen…)

She winces against the swelling
majesty of purple, green and blue.
The medicine cabinet whispers to her.

(fifteen… fifteen… fifteen…)

The flip-top bottle holds the same
fifteen…
capsules, cotton choking the neck.

She sucks in little sips of rib-cracking
air. His medication remains untouched.








This is FICTION. Save the concern for those who live this daily.