The Disc of Cold

The paper gown, a rustle on my back.

Her voice, efficient, flat, not quite my name.

Then, a chill, a sudden, sterile lack

of warmth. The metal disc, a tiny flame

of ice against my skin. Just there, between

my ribs. She breathed, 'Again.' Her eyes,

they saw some point beyond the screen

of me, beyond my nervous, shallow sighs.

She heard my breath, the wet, uneven sweep

inside. A universe of muffled sound.

But nothing of the secrets I would keep.

Just cold, a sterile trespass on my ground.

A small, invading circle, quick and neat.

My inner workings, laid out for defeat.