I’m standing here waiting for the rest of my life.

The room is cold, white, silent.

The storm last year nearly killed me, and that was while I was in the room;

I’d rather not take my chances and leave it.

I shout into the emptiness.


My voice echoes off the walls

and returns to my ears distorted and too loud.

I crouch and cover my head to defend myself from the aerial attack.

I whisper to the ground,



Legs forward, hands in my lap, I wait.

I grow bored.


Search for a mirror.

I find that the darkness outside turns the window into a reflective surface.

I wish I’d found a mirror.

I can’t smash my reflection in the window,

it’d break my hand.


I don’t want to let the storm in.

I pace

the room,

playing with my hands.

The shelf is lined with all of my favorite books.

There are only books I’ve read in the waiting room.

I don’t want to be bothered with books that aren’t worth my time.


you have beaten me, insulted me, enslaved me, stripped me, tormented me, kicked me relentlessly when I no longer attempted to pick myself up.

My blood is on your shoe, and I certainly didn’t put it there.

Why then, am I waiting for you?

They tell me you’re good.

I can see the truth in it.

When you weren’t slapping me, you were making me laugh.

You’ve given me excitement, love, friendship, pleasure.

But every coin has two sides, doesn’t it?

I wait in trepidation

I wait in titillation.

Until you take me from this station

and deliver me from my nation.

The door opens.

I stand frozen, unsure whether to run towards it

or away from it.

It’s not a fear of the unknown; I know exactly what will come through that door.

I’m just not sure I’m ready for it.



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