Friday

This hour seems truly godless.

This dark hour alone, when everyone is asleep or crying through their prayers, and sweating blood isn’t a problematic symptom. Everyone’s sweating blood now. Get a wipe, get a mask. You’re not special in your suffering.

This hour seems truly godless.

This loud hour when the masses are the murderers. They gather in droves, shopping carts as battering rams, and the love of death brought them close when nothing else could. Community loses its meaning in the absence of persecution. Death, death to the living bread that feeds all because I cannot be thankful for crumbs unless someone has less than me.

This hour seems truly godless.

This bruised hour where the IVs dig holes through your wrists. You drink from the cup through a bendy straw and suck vinegar out of blue sponges. You are pinned by wires and tubes. You can’t move your arms. The hospital curtain tears like wet tissue and your nakedness is exposed. The nurses are too busy resuscitating a ten-year-old to bother covering you.

Your last thought is a prayer.

Your last breath is a sob.

You did nothing wrong. You weren’t deemed viable enough for a ventilator.

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