~flatline.

day 1.

the lights blink above me like they know something.

i count the seconds between each flicker.

they do not align with my pulse, i take that as a sign.

day 3.

i say a word,

the sister writes “RESPONSIVE.”

but my voice doesn't belong to me.

she hands me a pen, asks me to express myself.

like this was a painting class, like grief is acrylic.

like the right brushstroke could make a body mean something again.

i try, holding it like a cigarette i never lit.

the paper stares at me white, wide, waiting.

i write, “the ache doesn’t bleed, it builds.”

they write, “RESISTANT TO HEALING.”

i want to laugh, but i’ve forgotten how that sounds.

day 5.

i dream of people with blurred faces.

their mouths don’t move, but they speak.

i look at my own hands. 

they’re holding a pen, it's leaking.

i wake up with ink in my mouth, no one believes me.

day 7.

i finally write five words, “this is not my voice.”

they applaud, say progress is fragile.

i agree, but only in my head.

only in the part of me they’ve stopped asking about.

day 9.

the pen breaks in my hand.

blue stains my wrist like a half-hearted attempt.

i look up, they look away. 

they don’t ask, i don’t explain.

because we’ve made a deal,

if i don’t scare them, they won’t lock the door.

day 11.

i hum under my breath, not a song, just static.

grief sits beside me like a roommate who’s been here longer than i remember.

asks if it can stay.

i tell it, “you live here now.”

i write nothing, they say i seem regulated.

i think they confuse stillness with healing.

i think they want me folded and clean.

i think i am learning to become that.

i think i am losing.

day 13.

the walls breathe slower than me.

i slow down to match them.

i want to go politely, i want to become architecture.

then they'd say, “GOOD RESPONSE TO ENVIRONMENT.”

i want to say, “i am erasing myself for your comfort.”

but my mouth won't move.

day 15.

they hand me another blank page.

i don’t take it.

i stare at my palms, like they might finally hold something worth writing.

they don’t, they are perfect mirrors.

they write,“STABLE.”

and i think, that’s what a flat line is, too.

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