The Pump

The Velcro sleeve is a desperate hug

choking the air out of my upper arm.

I feel the pulse, a rhythmic tug,

the sound of a very internal alarm.

The nurse stares at the flickering screen

where the numbers glow a jagged, angry red.

It’s the most honest I have ever been,

counting the beats of the things I haven't said.

One hundred and fifty over ninety-two.

The beige plastic machine doesn't care.

It just tells the truth of what I put myself through

while I sit in the office and gasp for air.