Discharged

The plastic is stiff and clouded,

locking in the smell of the floor.

I’ve been home for twelve hours

but I’m still waiting for a door

to swing open and a nurse to appear.

I found the band in the trash tonight,

a jagged edge that bit my wrist

every time I reached for the light.

I cut it off with the kitchen shears.

It curled up like a dead, white snake,

a reminder that I’m fragile enough

for the world to actually break.