Closed eyes

Another day,
just like every other day,
working until my fingers bleed.

Pain erupts,
so sudden it steals my breath,
doubles me over.

I lose time,
overwhelmed by the ache,
deep, and constant,
but increasing quickly and steadily.

I lose focus, can't keep my eyes open,
struggling to say anything,
to let someone know.

I lose strength,
body siphoning everything
to keep conscious.
The tears stream freely and openly,
not easing the pain.

People come in and leave,
ask questions I don't hear fully,
accept answers I don't remember being clear about.

So many people,
and I don't know if anyone understands.

I don't know if I'm being clear.
I don't know a lot of anything.
I know he's in the room,
next to me,
but I don't remember him coming in.

They strap me on the board,
ask questions;
laying down helps.

My pain stops being priority,
my body tries to lose consciousness.
Purple and blue blossom behind closed eyelids,
and I'm asked more questions.
I hear my babbling responses,
know that they don't track,
don't know how to explain,
know I'm not being understood.

The longer I lay down, the better I feel.
The trip to the hospital is long;
I see none of it.
The squeezing calms.

The hospital asks questions, does tests,
but gives no answers, no medicine.

The nurse writes my responses on a napkin.

I shouldn't be here.