The hospice room is large—the bed, its center—but it is empty. Where are you?
In your room, perpendicular to the bed, and there’s a chair where your awkward body sits, slumps really. You’re propped up like you’re feeling fine—that’s what healthy people do, they sit—but instead of attentive and alert, you are a rag doll. Your head flopped useless to the side, your mop of brown hair piled on top of your head like this is normal. Your bloated stomach from the swelling and the tumor looks wrong on you. This is not how cute, college girls of 23 look. You do not belong in this place with old bodies, bald heads and loose skin on bones like lace. This place, where death hangs on the walls like yellowed paint.